


Charmed

by girlskylark



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (because I'm not about that sexy life), 1920s, 1920s Seattle, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dancing, Derogatory Language, Detective Shiro, Hunk is a wealthy art nerd, I'm Going to Hell, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magical Realism, Mild Stockholm Syndrome, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, POV Lance (Voltron), Police Officer Shiro (Voltron), Psychopath Keith, Rape Recovery, Smoking, Sorcerers, Stockholm Syndrome, The sex scenes won't be SUPER explicit, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, just the concepts are, reference to sex, reusing The Quilted Lion magic world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-11-19 08:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 75,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlskylark/pseuds/girlskylark
Summary: In the twenty-first century, charming—or emotional magic—is illegal and rarely spoken of. It came from Europe where it was first banned early on, and the term stuck with them while in America, it transitioned to "magic" in hopes of shedding the horrible history that came along with the name.Lance never understood the repercussions of charming, since it was something so innately woven into his being that simply talking to a person triggered it. He was able to make anyone smile, to laugh, to obsess over him in hopes of hearing him tell his stories day after day as the life of a never ending party. That is—until he attends a party at an estate with a gory past.The Holt family was murdered prior to Keith Kogane's residence there, and their youngest daughter, Katie, disappeared. Her body was never recovered from the scene, and if that isn't enticing enough, Keith's parties illicit the thrill of extravagance. As Lance and Keith fall together, Lance wakes up to realize that Katie was never gone. She was living trapped in the same world Lance was in now: stuck in Keith Kogane's beautiful estate with no hope of escape.





	1. life of the party

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Quilted Lion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9483491) by [girlskylark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlskylark/pseuds/girlskylark). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This may or may not be explicit content—I originally had it under explicit, but... I think "mature" is also a safe route to go. So I've recently switched it to "mature".
> 
>  **Note:** Legitimate 1920s Seattle was experiencing a massive influx of Asian immigrants, which just seems convenient for Shiro and Keith considering their background. I won't spent a whole lot of time delving into the racism of the time, but... just be aware that there might be several derogatory terms from the 1920s that I'll tap into. 
> 
> **Also note:** People need to stop encouraging me. You know who you are. Also, this may or may not be inspired by A Little Life, if that's anything to go by. Which also means the rape scenes will imitate A Little Life because GAH I can't write those scenes very well.

Charming was something that came naturally to Lance. Magic was the hard part—he never dabbled in the _intentional stuff_. It was because of that fact that a lot of people missed him and wrote him off as a “really interesting guy. I could listen to him talk for _hours_.” Charming was different. Charming was something people hardly called magic at all.

It was the sort of thing Lance used subconsciously most of the time. There was no way for him to control it unless he seriously focused to grasp on to that spark that flared whenever he asked a partner to dance, or invited a girl to sit with him at the bar for a drink. He used it in conversation to grip his audience and hold them on the edge of their seats begging to hear more. His favorite place to use it—because it came so easily then—would be in the sheets drawing out moments of ecstasy where he saw fit. 

It was always a one-way current, but the effects of it always seemed to improve his mood. So long as his audience, his partner, his bedmate was happy, so was he. 

Quite honestly, his charming abilities were probably what got him invited to parties, but he didn’t mind. The idea that he was needed, _desired_ even, to attend extravagant parties was a testament to why he encouraged himself not to hold back. There weren’t many studies on the art of charming—it was a rare gift considering most emotional magic was discrete enough to hide for an entire lifetime, even to the host—but Lance was convinced that charming wasn’t something that stuck to a person even after the host left. 

It meant that people who asked for him truly meant it, whether or not they knew they were being charmed.

Lance was, as most people knew, an excellent dance partner. He played both roles for the sake of wooing his long-time friend and companion. It was always a pleasure to introduce his friend as “The sexy cop. Ask him for his handcuffs sometime.” 

That always made Takashi Shirogane a flustered mess as he insisted, “Oh, no, please don’t.”

Their dinner partners all laughed and giggled, which Lance _knew_ secretly pacified Shiro. He leaned towards Shiro to whisper in undertones, “Would you rather have them all hiding their purses from you in fear you’ll smell drugs or something?”

He scowled at Lance and nudged him in the leg. “Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Fine then,” he laughed, enjoying himself as he pushed away from the table. “I’ll leave you to the hyenas. You want another drink?”

Shiro held his hand over the rim of his glass to show he didn’t. Lance sashayed off, blowing a kiss to them and causing all the girls to go into a flurry, and several of the men at their table—including Shiro—to blush. He knew Shiro was, for the most part, furious with Lance’s audacity half the time, but Lance figured if Shiro didn’t like the attention, he wouldn’t agree to dance anyways.

Their evenings were spent, most days, dancing in pubs, clubs, dance halls, and everything in between. Decorative house parties were their favorite, considering how they mingled with such beautiful people. Their dancing partners were glittering in their diamonds and emeralds, sapphires and golden chains. They were able to pretend as though they weren’t who they were at all—Shiro, who was in the Seattle police precinct, and Lance, a number-crunching man in an office of cubicles. 

Not exactly a profession for a charmer. Some would say street work would be a better fit.

For the most part, Lance was thankful his charming went under the radar considering half the time he couldn’t control it. It was so fluent in everything that he did, that no one seemed to think twice. Even as a police officer, Shiro hadn’t known until Lance said so outright one night in a drunken haze at the bars.

It was the first time they met. Shiro had been so certain Lance had a drinking problem due to a complaint at the same bar several nights prior, but Lance charmed his way out of it and they made up. In the back of Shiro’s squad car.

Lance weaved between tables, recognizing visitors here and there from other endeavors. He was careful to avoid tables where his charming seemed to be the heaviest—sometimes it was suffocating to have all eyes on him in a sudden flash when he came within proximity of them. They were all quick to go back to their business after Lance escaped, cringing internally as he snuck to the edge of the estate grounds. 

The estate was marked with dense brick walls several feet taller than himself. They were lined with bushes of roses far too brilliant and large for an average lawn. In this part of the city, Lance wasn’t all that surprised to find magic used in the gardens—it took money to maintain magic yard workers, which just seemed to be a show around here. If you were able to afford magic gardeners, then you _really_ had money to flaunt around.

With everything else in the city being gray and rainy, roses became a primary part of everyone’s gardening decor. Lance found himself standing among thickets of them, climbing up the brick walls and surrounding him in enclosed arches. Sure, they were plenty of apartments going up around the city intended to benefit the wealthy, but it was nothing compared to the grandiose estates popping up where they could around where the hills were being flattened on the outskirts of the city.

Lance eventually emerged from the garden maze and found the bar, hidden among foliage at the far back of the party. It was lit by candlelight and hosted by a timid young thing mixing drinks in an emerald suit. He smiled enthusiastically at her as he walked up, and she noticed him briefly, turning her eyes instantly to her current customer as she pulled apart two ends of the mixer to drip a heavy pink liquid into the glass. The man tipped her well before walking off and leaving Lance to entertain her.

“I’ll just have a sidecar please,” he said. It was difficult to maintain eye contact with her, but when he managed it, he winked at her. It happened to be just as she was sliding the drink over to him, mute as ever. “Green suits your ginger hair. I like it.”

“Thank you, sir. Have a nice night,” she squeaked out as he walked off, chuckling to himself.

He met up with Shiro and sipped at his glass silently, listening to everyone else talk as they all seemed to be waiting for _something_ to happen as he drank. He half expected them all to say his glass was poisoned, but that never seemed to be the case. The thought amused him though, considering he was sat right next to a police officer in the guise of an elegant gentleman. 

When he finished, he nudged Shiro by the arm. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“I’m quite content here,” Shiro confessed. “Ask Hunk? Or one of these lovely ladies—I’m sure they could go for a swing.”

Lance rose his eyebrows at them, and got a volunteer wave from one of them. So he walked over, and gingerly helped her out of the seat as he took her by the gloved hand. The lights seemed to shimmer against it as he bowed and kissed her knuckles theatrically. “May I have this dance?” he asked, and she giggled her affirmation.

They went to where the band was playing, and he swung her onto the solid floor with a thrilled laugh. They twisted around one another, hips shifting quick to the beat between their timed steps. The tempo was fast, and Lance picked up on it as he went, letting the music flow over him as it always seemed to do, drifting him into a place where he was neither here nor there, nor conscious of how well he glided with his partner, or how he switched from woman to woman—a man here, a man there.

It was how he passed his nights to make his days more bearable. Lord knew he could go for a more exciting career path—if dancing could be a career, he would have picked it up sooner, but alas there he was, drifting away the night with brisk taps of his feet, clicking away with all the others. His hands were in the air, clapping with everyone else, laughing with everyone else, throwing his head back and feeling the air of everyone watching and smiling at him. 

The buzz of the alcohol gave him a coy, tipsy film over his vision that was so soft around the edges and inviting as he took up Shiro’s offer to hunt down Hunk. Hunk was someone they happened to meet on their outings after a party hosted by the big man himself. He was a humanist icon, artistic genius, lover of all things progressing Seattle’s investment in the arts. It was because of the Garretts that the city was ever funded enough to put up one of the earliest art-based museums in its history of existence, so naturally, Hunk was famous for it. 

Hunk’s estate was filled with stunning architecture, sculptures—which seemed to be a favorite of his—and paintings both his own, and of strangers. Hunk always maintained friendships with the artists he bought from, though. “I’ve been invited to San Francisco for a friend’s show! Isn’t that wonderful?” It was a common occurrence and Lance learned to be unfazed by it.

But is fame across the West Coast simply meant Lance saw less and less of this iconic figure he met early on in his dancing career, back when he was young and seventeen, and wooing anyone and everyone he could get sneak into parties like the Garretts. 

Hunk was there that night, though, chatting with what looked like a well-to-do woman of Asian descent. The massive immigration around the time brought with it the lovely woman Hunk seemed to be flirting with—but with little to no avail. She seemed entirely disinterested in Hunk’s advances until Lance showed up with a delighted, “Should I spare you from my friend’s drabbles?”

“Oh, Lance,” Hunk whined.

The woman chuckled, patting Hunk on the arm. “It’s been nice speaking with you, Hunk. Perhaps we could have tea another time, when I’m less… busy.”

“Two weeks from now, then!” he said, hopefully, but she was already walking away. “Okay! A month from now!”

“Goodbye, Hunk!” she dotted, waving to him. 

“She’s so beautiful,” Hunk sighed to Lance. “I’ve been taking lessons in language and nothing seems to work. There’s so many dialects to learn.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” he told him. “The effort means a lot, I’m sure.”

“It doesn’t seem so. All the art gallery openings I go to… I wish I could communicate my appreciation more effectively if—” he started, but they were interrupted by someone approaching. It wasn’t a surprise to hear that many of Hunk’s day-to-day appearances involved encounters with well-to-do Asian immigrants, and artists originating from there. Lance was aware that many of his superiors were frantically learning the language to accommodate for the influx in Seattle.

Shiro happened to be an immigrant as it was, and though it had been nearly a decade since he came with his parents at the age of fifteen, his accent was still there, even if it was only in hints that snuck in every now and then. 

The stranger that walked up to them was only vaguely familiar to Lance, but the man seemed to tune in to the conversation of Asian immigration. “I can’t imagine how you put up with it,” the man said. “Those celestials have been crawling through every corner of this city the past few years—and you find them _attractive_ ,” he all but spat at Hunk.

Lance’s eyes went wide, not only because of how the man addressed Hunk, but also the fact that Shiro was approaching and seemed to be in earshot of the comment. Shiro’s steps stuttered for a moment, but he continued on, stepping up beside Lance and clearing his throat.

The man turned to Shiro, who discretely pulled out his wallet to show his officer badge. “That seems like an incredibly disrespectful thing to say to an officer,” he commented, but it didn’t seem to diminish the scowl on the man’s face. He put the badge away and added, “And also, it seems like you’re having a lovely time at a _celestial’s_ estate.”

“And don’t you find it oddly suspicious that immediately after the family who originally _owned the estate_ ,” the man barked, looking pointedly at Hunk as he said, “a wealthy _American_ family, was murdered, an immigrant shows up and takes it over.”

“That seems like an awfully bold murder accusation,” Lance commented, almost amused. “Besides, we don’t know what happened to the daughter. It seems to me that you need to get your facts straight.”

The man was absolutely appalled by Lance’s statement, as if the daughter was better to be murdered than missing. He stalked off after glaring at Shiro, who Hunk immediately turned to after the ordeal. “I’m _so_ sorry about what he said, Shiro.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like _you_ said it,” Shiro said with a sigh. “I was just going to ask if Lance wanted to dance, but it seems like he was preparing to ask you at last.”

“Ah, yes, _at long last_ ,” Lance jested, which seemed to lighten the gloomy mood. “Come on. The night is young, the music’s fun, and I want to get my jig on, Hunk!”

And so the two of them drifted off to dance together on the patio in the wake of massive columns standing up two floors of elegant white balconies that rose high above the mass of trees and roses surrounding them, and the water of the Pacific at their backs. The lights rose up in the night, scaring off the stars in the sky their their tenacity to hold on to the night while it lasted.

  


  


So it seemed the estate experienced its own tragedy long before Lance arrived. 

It was a beautiful white escape within the Seattle forests, with a view of the potential skyline across Elliott Bay. It was a comfort to see such a place embracing the rainforest around it, despite its bold, clearly human sculpture. Lance noted the entrance almost fondly, with its fountain, and its high columns stretching high. The windows had already been alight with energy when he first arrived, and still seemed so even past midnight when Lance first met Keith.

Keith had been a surprise—a delightful surprise, even, for the sake of how wonderfully the ended up dancing together. He approached Lance on the dance floor, and they drifted together seamlessly from their other dance partners. Lance realized then that in his tipsy haze earlier, he had actually danced with Keith, and that they seemed far more familiar with each other now that their steps were perfectly in sync.

It was easy to notice Keith on the dance floor, watching him like that vigilant hawk with its eyes wide and vividly aware of the entire party around them. They caught each others’ eyes more than once from over the shoulders of their partners before Lance ever extended a hand—mentally, of course, for at this point in the night Lance was swept to and fro by other peoples’ invitations rather than his own.

“You seem familiar,” Keith commented as he took the place of Lance’s partner. “And not just from tonight.”

Lance thought about whether or not he’d met Keith before at another party. He was _sure_ he would have remembered a man in such nice fitting trousers, or with such a colorful red bowtie. His hair was _not_ in style, so that in and of itself was bizarre, but somewhat endearing.

They made more formal introductions before Lance hummed, “O, I don’t know.” His hands rested gingerly on Keith’s shoulders, almost as if he was soothing paper-thin sheets into place over a mattress. “You may have seen me around. Dancing, maybe? It seems like you dance often—you’re awfully good at it.”

Keith smiled at him then, the nudge on his lips hinting at his amusement. Lance enjoyed entertaining Keith if only to make him smile like that. He decided to flirt more vividly.

“If you _did_ happy to see me before,” he went on, looking down between them, and at the slim space they held firmly. As if to keep them both on track. “I’m surprised you never danced with me. I recall many of my dance partners.”

“Oh really?”

“Oh yes,” he said, smiling roguishly. “And I would certainly remember the feel of your hands in mine, or the fact that you’re wearing such expensive shoes, and that I am completely out of my league dancing with you now.

“And I would _definitely_ ask you for a second dance, if we met before,” Lance finished, aware that something in Keith’s expression had changed over the course of it. And, in the end, Keith’s devilish grin was so incredibly enticing, that Lance’s boldness reached its peak. “I would ask you for a third, but not here.”

Keith’s grin faltered for a moment. “That’s a disappointment. I can’t imagine we’ll ever meet again.”

Lance leaned in to whisper, for Keith’s ears only, “Not unless we find a bedroom where I could ask you then.”

It seemed to surprise Lance that he was even capable of asking. Sure, he’d been eager before, but never _this much_. He never considered just how much Keith stimulated parts of himself that he could normally repress. It was some primal instinct that they both seemed to share, and swapped over the course of the night.

It happened fast.

Keith threw his head back and laughed at the offer, but something about it reassured Lance that he wasn’t laughing at how absurd it was. It was probably because Keith’s hold on his hands tightened once they found each other, and he looked back at Lance with a nod, “I can’t say I’ve ever gotten such a forward ask before.”

“You seem flattered though. I’ll take that as a yes?” he asked, and Keith nodded yet again. “Perfect. Let’s find a room before the host kicks us out, yeah? Or we’re spotted by a maid or something.”

Keith laughed and said, “Sounds like you’ve done this before. Practiced?”

“That may or may not be the case. Who is to say?” Lance said as the two of them walked towards the house as if it were just another conversation with another guest at this extravagant event.

The doors to the house were wide open to the warm, summer night. Somehow, though, between then and the stairs, they found privacy enough for Keith to lean in and say, “Show me just how practiced you are.”

Keith followed obediently after Lance as they ducked into rooms that weren’t locked, and tried doors that were. They laughed over how ridiculous they were, keeping quiet in a house where everything echoed in the hallways. Their footsteps clapped against the glossy floors, and how their reflections nearly showed in the polished marble of the columns as they ran past hand-in-hand.

By the time they found a room that suited them, Keith had his lips pressing to the skin of Lance’s neck. He dragged his faint nails over Lance’s scalp as he cupped Lance by the jaw and sucked at his skin around his earlobe, licking into it as he backed Lance onto the bed. He fell surrounded by the bed curtains, hot in the chest as he felt so enchanted, he wondered if his charming was starting to evolve into something that blended into his own emotions.

Keith backed up and locked the door before shedding his jacket, the tie, the suspenders and the pants. He nudged his shoes off by the heels as Lance did the same, kicking them from the bed as their eyes remained in contact all the while. There was barely a sound aside from muffled music coming in through the open windows—facing the front—and their heady breaths finding one another the instant their skin became exposed.

Keith tore into the buttons of Lance’s shirt and dragged his open mouth across the planes of Lance’s chest. His breath, his heart, the needy ache in his throat was something that made Lance feel as though he’d just run a marathon and craved _more_. He wanted the exertion, the adrenaline, more than anything now. 

“Tell me,” Keith panted against his abdomen, long fingers _encasing_ Lance’s narrow torso, and how his thumbs pressed in to the hollow divots around Lance’s hipbones. “ _Tell me—_ ”

“What—what do you want to hear,” Lance pleaded, kneading his hands through Keith’s heavy black hair. 

Keith dipped up towards his mouth and confiscated it with teeth nipping at his lips. “That you—want me,” he said between kisses. “Say it.”

“ _Hell yes_.”

“ _Say it_.”

“I _want you_ to fuck me,” he hissed, mimicking the severity of Keith’s voice. 

So Keith did and it was _heaven_. Lance was certain of it. He was _so fucking glad_ he was at least a fraction of a cent sober to experience the bliss of it, the high of it, and how thrilled he was to somehow managing a quick fuck in a rich guy’s house. That was always the best part of it. Knowing he could get away with something so socially obscene in a place of such high standards. 

And _God_ … he could say he didn’t just enjoy it once, but _twice_ in that estate. 

That seemed sick to admit.

Because afterwards, when Lance was satiated and back to the world, he sat up a little and looked around the room. How could anything seem _normal_ after such a perfect night? How could he _stand_ normality? How could he stand to sit in a cubical all day when he could enjoy parties like this? 

“What is it?” Keith grumbled into the pillow, pushing onto his elbows to watch Lance return to reality.

“Oh, just worried about being caught is all,” he confessed. “Come on, let’s get going.”

“Find another room?” Keith suggested, resting his arms around Lance as he nipped at a bruise on Lance’s shoulder. “I’ll get us drinks?”

“This is someone’s _house_ , Keith,” Lance said, rolling his eyes. Though his desire for it wasn’t _terribly_ buried. He could dig it up just by kicking the sand that dusted over it.

Keith reached between Lance’s legs and held him, coaxing him back into it so he probably wouldn’t be able to fit _into_ his pants again to bother finding another room. He said as much, and received a, “Then wait here, hun. I’ll get us some drinks” in response.

When Keith came back, Lance was swollen between his legs and impartial to drinking again—not when Keith was looking at him like that, anyways. Keith took a sip of his own glass and crawled over, unbuttoning as he went and tipped the rim of the glass to Lance’s mouth. “Come on—for me. It’ll be fun.”

Lance rolled his eyes, taking the glass with a huff. “As if getting shitfaced is _ever_ fun.”

Keith gave him a mockingly dull stare as he drank. “I would never.” They both dissolved into laughter, and Lance just couldn’t seem to stop because something seized control of every last shred of his self-control.

He’d been sitting up when he was drinking, and suddenly he was falling. Keith swept the glass out of his hand and put it on the nightstand along with his own. He laid a hand over Lance’s hair as he tried to articulate his concerns. 

Lance’s tongue was fat in his mouth, and felt as though it was made out of something fuzzy and unseemly beyond comprehension. “Sweet dreams,” Keith hummed, fingers clenching over Lance’s jaw before he kissed Lance goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pLEASE let me know if you're interested in this at all. It'll be difficult to write, and I'm always up for a challenge, but I just want to know if I'm wasting my breath tossing out a sketchy idea to you guys. That said, it might revert back to Mature instead of Explicit because I DON'T HAVE PLANS on writing hardcore explicit rape scenes.
> 
> I also didn't edit. So what else is new XD


	2. broken bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the awesome reception :O I probably would have written this anyway and just not posted it. Suffice to say that for the most part... I've been shielding my readers from my usual strand of dark themes in my original works. So this is new XD Don't say I didn't warn you.

The thing about magic was that it was _everywhere_ , and in the subtlest of places. Business owners incorporated it into the daily lives of their workers, and in the daily lives of their customers who were served by magic employees spinning baguettes into the air, and baking them straight into the warm bag they were delivered in. It was swept into the best pot of coffee you’ll ever fucking have—right on your nearest street corner. They laced it through the good things, and the bad things. 

And when Lance woke up with a killer headache, he seriously wished he had a good fucking smoke at the tip of his fingers. But his magic didn’t work like that—sometimes, it seemed, it didn’t work at all. The best he could do was have elegant handwriting that rivaled that of a calligrapher, and some of his grade school teachers were _so sure_ it was magic, but to others… it was just good handwriting.

He got his cigarettes from a corner store down the street from his apartment. They were cheap considering they were made special with magic, and he was addicted the instant Shiro gave him a taste.

“That’s good shit, huh?” Shiro commented as Lance sighed into it, orgasmically enough to make Shiro embarrassed to be standing next to him on the street. “Okay, not _that_ good.”

“It so is, though,” Lance insisted. He practically inhaled it. “Another?”

“You have to limit yourself with these ones or risk being a chainsmoker,” he warned Lance, and so they stuck to one a day for the both of them. Lance could live with that. On _terrible_ days, he broke and allowed himself two, sometimes three, but never more. After that it was just simply regular packs to fill the lull between his ultimate, soul-wrenching desire for a magic ciggy.

Lance nearly sat up to reach for one on his bedside when he was wrenched back down by something clogging his windpipe. He coughed and groaned, wincing as he realized something was lying heavy over his neck. 

He squinted up at where the drapery peaked over the queen bed. He stared at it as his thoughts collided like the sloping lines of that golden fabric converging at a single point. Last night had been… _incredible_. Up until—

Lance didn’t trust his voice when he came to the conclusion. Swallowing hard, he twisted his head from one side to the other to see the room in daylight, and how the window still laid open, and the door remained shut and locked. 

“Keith?” he found his voice, but it didn’t sound like him. He’d never heard himself so terrified, which just seemed to make it worse.

He yanked his hands against the restraints and tried to kick out of the ones clamped on his ankles. The sheets beneath him bunched in waves as the thrashed, panicked whimpers turning to shrieks and snarls of an animal desperate to escape. “ _This isn’t funny!_ Let me _go!_ ” he screamed, back arching as he yelled.

That seemed to be the magic word, considering then the door unlocked. 

He froze mid-yell.

The door opened, and even in the daylight Lance could recognize Keith standing there. He tried to read the man’s expression, and he couldn’t even manage that. Something about it was made of stone as he slowly approached Lance, hands clasped studiously behind his back. The door remained wide open, and if he could, Lance would have covered himself up.

Something logical came back to Lance. A means of escape.

“Let me go,” he hissed, voice seeping with sparks of it.

Keith’s expression broke to that sly, sideways grin of his. He leaned over the mattress, and grabbed Lance by the jaw. “Say it again,” he demanded.

“Let me _go!_ ” Lance snarled, his heart threatening to ram through his ribcage, squeezing between the bones with every pronunciation of the word. He could feel the charm practically turning his tongue numb with its intensity. Keith _had to_ let him go. Any average person would have been lunging for Lance’s restraints at this point.

Keith’s hand fell over his arm, reaching for the cuff on the wrist closest to him. Lance stopped writhing, and waited as Keith brushed their palms together and said, “Damn. You almost got me there. I’m impressed—clearly, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.”

Lance merely glared at him, his breath huffing through clenched teeth. 

“Here’s the thing, _Lance_ ,” Keith drew out, gripping Lance’s index finger as if to rip it from its socket. The sudden fear of it gripped him just as Keith pull the finger back. “Do you know of anyone who charming doesn’t usually affect? Any group of people at all?”

“No— _ah!_ ” he yelped, the crack of his finger more excruciating than anything he’d ever felt. He never _once_ broke a bone in his body, and in just a second Keith managed to snap his index finger practically in two. “ _Stop!_ No—”

“ _Say it again!_ ” Keith snarled, and Lance found himself stopping, tears streaking his cheeks as he realized.

People who weren’t capable of the genuine emotions Lance provoked. His head sunk into the pillow, even as his arm quivered. “Ps-Psychopaths,” he stammered out in a half-sigh, swallowing down the dry sensation in his throat. “You’re a _psychopath_.”

Keith grabbed onto his next finger. “ _Wait!_ I got it right—don’t, please don’t,” Lance begged, wishing desperately that he could reach over with his other hand to punch Keith away from his fingers. Belatedly, almost _pitifully_ , Lance realized that if his fingers were broken, he’d likely get fired and have his position replaced in the office. He _hated_ the cubicles, the constant typing away, but… that seemed to be his every day life when it wasn’t night.

“Tell me not to, and I won’t,” he said, and Lance stared at him in exasperation.

“You just _said_ charming doesn’t _work on you—_ ”

“Some part of _your charming_ does. Now do it, or else you’ll never be able to give me the middle finger like I know you so _desperately_ want to,” he said, almost amused by Lance’s stricken expression. 

Lance wasn’t even sure if he could speak without his voice shaking, let alone lace his words with magic, but he did it anyways. “D- _Don’t_ break my finger. Ple— _eease! Shit!_ ”

Keith stepped off the bed and brushed off his hands, as if breaking hands gave him coodies. “Well. That was close. Try harder next time.”

When Keith left, Lance thought some form of relief would wash over him, but it didn’t. He succumbed to the echo of his thoughts rapidly beating in harmony with his throbbing fingers. He uselessly cried and felt guilty for it, because he knew it wouldn’t help—though he’d always heard that when a charmer cried, the world came running. That was what his Ma always said, considering she seemed to know every single moment Lance hurt himself at the park, or in the road, or in the backyard with his siblings. 

“It’s the strongest, rawest emotion you can give to people,” she had told him one time she ran down the street to their neighbor’s when he was crying on the gravel, rocks stuck in pockets of flesh on his knee. “It’s impossible for us to ignore, because pain is something no one wants to experience, let alone watch _you_ experience it when you give us such joy, _mijo_.”

After that he didn’t want to inconvenience his Ma by crying. She came running every time, regardless of where she was, or what she was doing. It seemed like something he’d only do on desperate occasions, but either way, he was surprised when anyone answered it.

The door opened, and Lance turned away from it because he recognized Keith’s suit jacket, and how he opened up the door for a pair of smaller, gentler feet stepping towards the bed. 

“Splint his fingers. We don’t want them healing wrong.”

“Okay, sir.”

Lance recognized the voice instantly, but he didn’t know where from. He waited until the door closed to look at her, and how even now she wore a green dress studded with gold to accent her strikingly orange hair. “Y-You,” he stammered, causing the girl to look up. “I know you. You—were at the bar— _how?_ ”

“I work for Mister Kogane now,” she told him, quietly as she faced Lance’s deformed fingers. He couldn’t even look at them, let alone watch the girl work as she reset them and taped flat-edged sticks to either side of them. She wrapped all of his fingers together to hold them straight, and he regretted to say that he screamed inadvertently as she worked.

At the end of it, she reached a tissue out and rubbed it beneath his eyes. By the time she reached his opposite cheek, the tissue was damp, and his eyes were achey and swollen. “Please let me go,” Lance asked her.

“I can’t.”

“Then I com _mand—_ ”

The door opened again and Keith whistled at the girl. “C’mon, don’t let him talk you into anything.” 

She snapped her first aid kit shut and gave Lance a pitiful look. “I’m sorry. My name’s Katie, but I go by Pidge most days.”

“Lance. Nice to meet you,” he said, sniffling as she ran off and underneath Keith’s outstretched arm. She ducked behind his coattail and out of sight, though Lance could clearly see the look of suspicion on Keith’s face. 

“Guess I’ll have to tape your mouth next time she fixes you up,” he huffed, but the smile on his lips said that he enjoyed teasing Lance. He stepped away and shut the door with a click of the lock.

  


The Holt’s youngest daughter went missing, and her name used to be all over newspapers across Seattle five years ago. Her name was Katie Holt, and they made lucrative attempts to recover the tracks of her disappearance to no avail. Keith Kogane moved into the estate, which effectively shut down investigations n the estate. Whether that was the lawful way around it, or that Keith paid them off, was up for debate. A _conspiracy_ , if you will, but either way, the guests loved to tell a good ghost story about the fabled Katie Holt.

No one knew what happened to the Holts, aside from the conspirators. Lance was starting to believe them, realizing that perhaps it _was_ a bit fishy that Keith moved in straight after the event. It was talked about for weeks, but people grew tired of the subject after a while. The only times the Holts seemed to pop up again were at the parties hosted at the Kogane Estate. 

Lance didn’t know much about Keith Kogane, considering no one really _knew_ who he was. They simply knew what everyone else said: wealthy Korean boy with an inheritance, association with banks across Seattle, and rumor had it that he was planning to buy off one and found his own bank that already existed in _Portland_. Portland! God, if that wasn’t something, Lance wasn’t sure _what_ was.

But why would a well-to-do man like Keith choose _Seattle_ , of all places? The epicenter of gloomy rainy days prompting the highest statistical count of suicides on the West Coast? Whether or not Keith was capable of such depression was up for debate now that Lance realized why he, of all people, would be attracted to such a dark area.

Lance always knew him by the last name, never the first. In papers he was titled Mr. Kogane, as if he was everyone’s boss, everyone’s supervisor. Someone not to be crossed. 

“Shiro…” Lance found himself saying aloud, and it sounded so foreign against the drumming in his ears, or the sea of trees swaying outside. He looked to the window. His hope spiked.

Shiro was always iffy about Lance’s insistent flirting, his conscious effort to woo guests into bed. But if he happened to see Lance walk off with someone at a party, he usually waited if he saw Lance’s car, but—Lance didn’t even have his trousers, let alone his car keys. No practiced psychopath would leave the victims car out in the open, but—

There was the chance Shiro would still worry. That he’d get to work after having called Lance on his landline, and waited through a second call thinking Lance was too irritably hungover to answer. He’d get to work, and fret and fret over Lance because that was what Shiro did. He worried about Lance—about _everyone_.

He spent so much time with Shiro that there _had_ to be some substance to the idea that charmers could connect to friends from afar. Every now and then Shiro would be filling out paperwork at his desk in the precinct and come back to himself, realizing he was smiling. He’d meet Lance at the bars after hours to say, “What’s gotten you so happy today?”

“Shiro!” Lance started screaming. “ _SHIRO!_ ” 

He yelled so fucking loud that it cracked in his voice with every hitch in volume. Shiro’s voice scratched up his throat yelling, “ _TAKASHI! TAKASHI SHIROGANE!_ ”

He expected Keith to burst in in a panic to cover his mouth, but he just sauntered in with a tired sigh. “ _Fuck_ me. I have a hangover, you little shit,” he bit out as he snapped a cloth tight and sliced it across Lance’s mouth to silence him. The fabric was thick in his mouth, soaking up the moisture of his yelling and making him incapable of biting Keith’s wrist as he tied it around the back of Lance’s head. He tugged it tight enough to practically punctuate Lance’s own aching head.

  


  


Shiro wasn’t entirely convinced that _anyone_ was calling his name, but he decided to look into it as he wandered the back room of the precinct and peered into the break room. He made his rounds through the building with a tight notch between his brows, wondering what in the world he was experience. Of course, the sensation faded, but it always took a few moments for him to register what it was.

Lance sometimes liked to fuck with him ever since the guy figured out he could, and so he did. But Shiro was aware that it was his job to take things seriously. He called Lance earlier that day before leaving for work after having watched the man take another man to bed the night before—or rather, early morning. When he didn’t get an answer, he just assumed Lance had gone home with the guy, since Lance’s car wasn’t parked among all the others at the party.

Shiro resisted the strain in his chest as he swung the dial wheel into the digits of Lance’s number. The phone rang and rang to no avail, and so he hung it and turned away with a look across the precinct. He still had work to do—there were reports on his desk that needed finishing, but… suddenly nothing seemed more important than making sure Lance was okay.

He walked up to his supervisor, Iverson, and said, “You trust my suspicions, right, sir?”

His supervisor looked up from his desk, those bleary, sloped eyes studying him for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I do. What is it?”

“I’d like to look into something. I’ll need to take one of the squad cars, sir.”

“Have you finished your work?” When Shiro didn’t answer, Iverson sighed and stood from his desk to unlock the set of keys on the wall. He tossed Shiro one of them and said, “ _After_ you finish your work.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Shiro went back to his desk and schooled himself into focusing behind the distant trace of Lance’s magic in his system. It stuck there like a taste in his mouth—it was both sweet and sour and it hollowed out his cheeks whenever he desired more from it. There was only so much of Lance’s charming that he could give Shiro, but it was, quite honestly, just as addicting as the smoke lying thick in the air.

When he left the precinct that afternoon, he tapped his cigarette box to his palm and flicked out one to rest on his lip. There were others out back enjoying the _fresh air_ , as they called it, though it was still dressed in cigarette smoke. One of them lit his cigarette for him before he stepped back, twirling the key in his hand. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Does Iverson know?” one of them asked.

“Yeah, he gave me the key,” he laughed, waving it in front of their eyes before he walked off to the number vehicle it was for.

His first stop was Lance’s apartment, and from the street he could see it was dark, but he took his spare key anyways up to the third floor where he investigated the empty rooms and crevices across Lance’s humble abode. It was just as bare as the life Lance lived—at least, that’s how Lance always described it to Shiro.

“If I’m gonna be a number-cruncher, I might as well live like one,” he once said, collapsing back into a sofa that once belonged to his grandmother. The floral print was sickly and vomit-inducing against the cracked, cream-colored walls. They used to be white as far as Shiro could tell.

“Then you might want to clear out your wardrobe,” Shiro told him that day, throwing open the closet. 

He did so that day he searched for Lance. He opened the closet in the hallway, and was nearly trampled by Lance’s elaborate costumes, full of color and elegance. Quietly, they both knew every bit of Lance’s paycheck went to his outfits, second to paying rent.

Shiro picked up one of the shirts and hung it back up. He kicked the rest into the closet and jammed it shut again. So no Lance here.

 _I suppose I could give Hunk a ring_ … Shiro thought to himself as he hovered near Lance’s phone. He crushed the remains of his cigarette in Lance’s ash tray before dialing up Hunk’s number. The switchboard operator directed him to the Garrett’s landline.

“This is the Garrett residence. And to whom am I speaking?” the servant picked up, almost as if he’d been standing directly next to the telephone the entire time.

“Tell Hunk it’s Shiro. And it’s important.”

“Yes, sir. It’ll be just a moment.”

Shiro waited impatiently, his expression distraught as he stared at the interior of Lance’s apartment. Something wasn’t right—he knew it the second he heard his name through some echoed corridor of his mind, the one that connected him to Lance, and Lance to everyone else. The panic oozing out from it covered the floors and crawled up his spine like the shudder Hunk halted the second he answered the phone.

“Y’ello this is Hunk speaking. What’s going on? Is everything all right?” Hunk asked.

“It’s Lance. I’m worried something’s wrong—he never came back last night and—” Shiro reminded himself that Hunk was unfamiliar with Lance’s charming, “—and I’m standing in his apartment and he isn’t here. Did you see him leave the party last night?”

There was a brief moment of silence before Hunk confessed, “No, I didn’t. I saw him leave with the host, though—into the house.”

“The host? _Thee_ Kogane?” Shiro repeated, and Hunk hummed his affirmation. “Was that the man Lance… you know?”

“No, I don’t,” Hunk said sarcastically. “Please explain yourself in vivid detail.”

“You know what I mean,” Shiro groaned.

“For a friend of Lance, you seem awfully against using the word ‘sex’. Though I always did assume you were more of the ‘making love’ type, but—”

“Hunk this is serious. I’ll call you back after I talk with Mister Kogane,” Shiro sighed, and hung up before Hunk could finish his ramblings about “the art of making love.”

Irritated, frustrated, and relieved to know where Lance was, Shiro made his way out of the apartment complex and to the squad car.

  


  


Keith hummed as he climbed onto the bed and over Lance’s naked body. “Such a disappointment,” he sighed as he settled, straddling Lance’s thighs and remaining there as Lance tried to buck him off. “I wish I could take off that cloth to hear you. Ah, well. Seems like your entire body is just _drenched_ in it. Can’t say I’ve ever seen _that_ before.”

He curved his hands over Lance’s hips, drawing up to Lance’s pecs, and settling where he could tower over the glower Lance was giving him. He mumbled around the cloth, “What’s _that_ supposed to mean, you _bitch_.” It didn’t really sound like that, though, so Keith just laughed, playing along with the way Lance tried to twist him off by lifting his back up sharply. 

“Charming is something I usually associated with words, you know,” Keith said. “There were several others who could talk a psychopath into things, but… I think you’ll be _far_ more successful than them. 

“What? You look as though you’ve never heard of people like me before,” he cooed mockingly, sitting up a little to sigh. He rolled his hips against Lance’s as he thought on the matter more. Lance groaned and pressed his head back, trying to restrain every part of himself from giving Keith the satisfaction of knowing he could _ever_ be turned on by a _man like him_.

“We all have enemies, don’t we?” Keith said, gripping Lance soft between the legs, turning his face red with the effort to not let his body betray him. “I used people like _you_ to get what I want. And when you’re ready, we’ll destroy my enemies one. By. One.”

Lance viciously tried to throw Keith off, sobbing with the effort. Keith pushed into his stomach where he just _knew_ Lance’s bladder was about to explode anyway from the drinks the night before. He knew he had to piss an hour before Keith ever even came in here, but now it felt as though Keith was trying to eject a rock through his lower abdomen. 

He sucked in his breath and winced, ceasing movement. Keith grinned at him. “You _know_ I’m not letting you out of here,” he said to Lance. “You _know_ you’re going to have to piss yourself eventually.”

It was humiliating. Lance couldn’t remember the last time he ever wet the bed, but now he had to seriously contemplate _consciously pissing himself_. He was grateful he hadn’t eaten anything the night before, so shitting wasn’t an issue.

Keith grew bored of Lance’s embarrassment, and rolled off of him with a sigh. “Disgusting. If I come back and see you’ve wet the bed—” He paused to look at Lance, who quickly turned away with a scowl, thankful the pain in his bladder eased slightly, now that Keith wasn’t sitting on it. A moment later, he heard the door shut, and he was alone again to count the throbbing pulses in his finger in hopes of distracting from his bladder.

Lance forced himself into the mindset of escaping, though it wasn’t all that far from his current mindset to begin with. His thumb couldn’t get through the restraint on his right arm, and with his fingers broken, he didn’t want to attempt his other hand. More than once he tried to weasel out of the neck brace that seemed to loop out from either side of the mattress. He ducked his head to the side, chin pressed painfully to his bony shoulder as he wrenched his head through the rope and escape only to collapse on the bed again, still restrained by the limbs. 

Panting hard, he stared up at the peak of the drapery and counted to ten before yanking his arm so hard that his right elbow felt like it was becoming disjointed and detached. He huffed again to the count of ten and heaved his arm against it, crushing his lower thumb knuckle against the restraint. Furiously he yanked at it again and again before he broke down into frustrated tears. 

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK_.

He threw himself down on the mattress in a tantrum of kicks and screams before halting to pant for air. It hissed between the fabric stuff in his mouth, and the mucus in his nose. He sniffed hard and looked towards the window where he swore he heard something buzzing. Humming. Rumbling— _a motor_. 

Lance screamed, “ _HELP!_ ” as loud as he could through the fabric, but it was incomprehensible and only seemed to bring in unwanted attention. He flinched as he though it was Keith, but instead the little girl came hustling across the room to slam the window shut and lock it. 

The entire way she was blurting out, “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” as Lance _yelled at her_ to open the fucking window. She was such a timid thing, but at this point Lance’s bladder was on fire and his fingers were still _broken_ so he didn’t give two shits. 

She hurried over to him and tried apologizing again, trying to hush him. “I—I _promise_. I _promise_ I’ll try to convince the visitor you’re here. You just—you have to _stay quiet_ , okay?” Lance let out a rough sigh and stared at her pointedly, trying to convey that he’d do _anything_ if only she would do as she promised. “Okay, good. I’ll… I’ll be right back. Stay quiet,” she told him, pressing a finger to her own lips before hurriedly running off and shutting the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are gonna KICK ME for the next chapter. This entire book is me being that meme reaction gif of the woman crying while nodding/shaking her head like "I know I'm a terrible person but it's happening anyways and I can't stop it."
> 
> You guys know me. I never leave cliffhangers. But that's what's gonna happen and I can't stop that, either.
> 
> Fight me if you want on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/) :O


	3. withdrawals

Lance wasn’t convinced that his bladder would stay under his control for very long. It was on the verge of three hours since anyone came into the room according to the clock on the wall, which meant the car drove off, and Katie never came back. 

He tried not to let the pain of it to exceed that of what was physically pumping through his fingers. He sucked in the hot tears swelling on his already puffy lids. He cried and screamed so much over the course of the morning that it felt as though his cheeks were made out of plastic. And he knew that if anyone so much as made a sudden noise, he would piss himself with fear.

It started to rain some time after the car left, and it pattered against the roof over his head, and dripped through the flurry of trees swaying outside. 

_Nothing like this could last_ , he told himself. 

He’d never endured something like this before. He never thought he’d _ever_ have to.

 _God_ , did he need a cigarette. 

People weren’t _allowed_ to do as they pleased like Keith did. No one was _allowed_ to get away with kidnapping innocent people. No one was _allowed_ to break Lance’s fingers and be okay with it.

Every second he stopped counting was filled with the thought of Keith suddenly bursting in with an axe or something to chop off his leg. It was a bit extreme, but he wasn’t canceling out any options. If he started to do that, then the one option that made him think, “No, Keith would _never_ do that,” might suddenly cone to fruition, and he’d be entirely unprepared for it.

He was expecting every horrible thing to happen in the stretch of the day where nothing ever did.

He peered down at his swollen bladder and cussed. It was getting dark. He wondered if he tipped his hips to the side, he could projectile-piss off the bed. He seriously considered it an hour ago, so he went for it. It was hot and smelled of urine, and a solid minute into it, the stream started to sputter, along with Lance’s initial fear that Keith was just on the other side of the door waiting for the moment Lance actually cracked.

But Keith never burst in. The night toiled on, and with his bladder _finally_ flat again, his attention went not to where the pain was throbbing in his hand, but to where it went completely dismissed in his stomach.

“Shit,” he breathed out, throat dry despite how damp the cloth was in his mouth. “ _Shit_.” 

Every now and then he skipped meals either out of necessity, or out of forgetfulness. On occasion, he worked through lunch and it would completely skip his mind until he was eating ravenously at dinner thinking, “Why am I so hungry?” Half the times he didn’t feel hungry at all—or rather, he felt _nauseous_ from how starving he was. 

The nausea was partly drawn from his dire need for a smoke. _God_ did it burn in his chest like some immovable sensation—its kryptonite being the roll of tobacco pressed to his lips. 

He groaned and took deep breaths, trying to push back the nausea of not eating anything the entire day, and his lack of cigarettes. He closed his eyes and counted, and counted, and wondered if it was even possible to sleep on a stomach as empty as this. _People do this all the time_ , he told himself. _People on the streets. Homeless people don’t eat. Prisoners don’t eat. Kidnapped victims don’t eat. Just fucking sleep through it_.

Somehow he managed it, but he still woke up in the morning with the pain just as unbearable as before.

He could feel just how puffy his eyes were from crying. It seemed like he didn’t have enough tears to assist in his kicking-and-screaming efforts. His throat was so hoarse that it seemed to crack. He leaned to the side coughing, pulling on his restraints as he yelled, words mushed by the fabric over his mouth, “ _HEY! Isn’t someone gonna come in here and FEED ME?_ ”

Throughout the day he spared his voice in intervals before yelling, “ _I NEED WATER! FOOD!_ ” but nothing came of it. He figured that by the time he even started asking, it’d been long enough. Wasn’t Keith just _waiting_ for him to break? To see how long he could hold out before begging? Realizing this led Lance to realize—

Keith was just saying shit about Lance pissing him self to see how long his fear would prevent him from peeing off the side of the bed. He never planned on punishing him anyways.

Even when he screamed charm after charm, no one came. He wondered if they had earplugs in. As a child, even in his small size and age, he threw tantrums and scream, “ _I WANT PUDDING!_ ” and a second later they would find his Ma grudgingly stirring over a bowl of chocolate powder and milk muttering, “I hate it when you do that, _mijo_. I told you not to, and what do you do?”

He remembered feeling guilty for it, and how he hadn’t actually wanted pudding at all. He ate it though, tearing up at the thought of how he forced his mother to make him dessert before dinner. At the time, his mother had stood over him and watched him until he ate every last bit of it. Crying while eating was his least favorite thing to do—the saliva in his mouth seemed to web, and bubble up each bite that swallowed down his raw throat. 

So even in his tantrums back then, he tried his hardest not to make the fight unfair like he had that time with the pudding. 

But now—it was all or nothing.

He exhausted his charms before midday, and the draught of it was so extreme that he passed out. Charming sometimes did that—it was much like caffeine or crying. It would come in spurts, or long bursts, and afterwards the host was too emotionally and physically drained to continue on. So he slept through his stomach pains until it was dark again, and then he screamed some more. By the morning, he was hoarse as a cat left to cry at strangers on the street for food. 

His limbs ached from holding them out in a starfish formation. It hurt to play in the same position for so incredibly long, and it caused him to become fidgety and antsy even when he had no energy that entire day.

  


  


Lance was desperate by the third morning he spent in the Kogane Estate, but he couldn’t move. Every part of him was shaking, and in his dehydration, he stopped sweating despite how damp the sheets were already. He stared at his good hand where he distracted himself from the hunger by holding out two fingers, and raising them as much as he could, as if it was as close to smoking as he could get. 

Just as he closed his eyes and blew out an invisible stream of smoke, the door opened.

Lance was so surprised by the noise that he yelped—but with his throat as raw as it was, all that came out was an airy squeak. He stared at it like it was some foreign creature, and the man that emerged from behind it even more so. He stared at Keith as he approached the bed, eyes focused solely on Lance’s watchful blue ones. 

They stared at each other, and Lance’s head too much of a garbled mess to bother coming up with something to say. All he could think of was how envious he was—Keith, in his fancy suit, well-fed stomach. Keith, with his perfectly shaven face and well-rested eyes. 

Keith, with the hand he could outstretch when Lance was trapped here.

His hand pressed to where Lance’s cheeks were swollen and sore from both crying, and the fabric digging into them. “Tell me what you want,” Keith said before pulling out a knife. He wedged the flat end of it between the fabric and Lance’s skin, and sawed through the cloth.

It was disorienting being able to have a functioning mouth again. Nothing felt right on his tongue, so he stumbled uselessly over the words—until Keith held out a cigarette, coaxing Lance’s train of thought elsewhere. “Give it to me,” he demanded, craning his head up to meet it.

“Gentle—no biting,” Keith said, and pinched the end with two fingers as he settled the other end on Lance’s cracked lips. Keith flicked a match against the box and cupped it over the end of Lance’s cigarette. He pinched it gingerly as Lance coughed on the first cloud of it before letting a stream slip through his lips. He all but sank into the mattress as he coughed again, tongue now a dry sock in his mouth.

Keith edged onto the bed, staying clear of the soiled sheets before reaching out to hold the cigarette back. “What do you need? You can keep the fag.”

Despite how satisfying the smoke was, it seemed to sap all the moisture out of his mouth. It took a while for him to stammering out, “ _Water_ —I need _water_.”

“No,” Keith hissed. “ _Order me._ ”

Lance stared at him, leaning as far up as he could from the restraints to hiss out, “ _Give me water_ this instant! I want _food_.” 

Keith reached into his back pocket and pulled out a key. He undid the restraint on his wounded hand before walking down to the end of the bed and undoing his ankle, his other ankle. Lance was so struck by it that he couldn’t even move, even after all the restraints were gone. 

Slowly, he retracted himself from the starfish formation. His limbs were numb and tingly as soon as he curled into himself and sat up for the first time in two days. His equilibrium instantly sent him jarring to the side, grappling to stay straight as he sought the edge of the bed. 

Keith tugged him over and lifted him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you food,” he told Lance.

Lance’s feet refused to function for the first few steps. They were out of the room before Lance even realized he was completely naked. “I need clothes,” he said.

“No.”

The clothes must not have been important considering Lance didn’t press the matter, or demand them as he had the food and water his stomach yearned for. 

Lance kept his hands to his chest, cradling his broken fingers to his heart until Keith pulled his good hand out and stuck a new cigarette there. The world bubbled around him, and he realized quickly that this lightheaded feeling was the reason why Keith trusted him to walk around freely. He wouldn’t be capable of running, even if he tried—his limbs were weak and unfocused, he was dehydrated, his blood sugar was low. He wouldn’t make it far.

When Keith took to following Lance to the stairs. There, Lance clung to the railing and tried not to feel as if he was on a two-dimensional plane experiencing human perspective for the first time. Either way, he was nauseous and tripping over his feet before they even reached the first floor.

“Tell Pidge what you want,” Keith told him as he walked down a white-walled tunnel— _no_ , it was just a hallway, and Katie Holt’s silhouette stood at the other end, dressed in green, hands clasped in front of her. 

_Pidge?_ he thought, suddenly in front of Katie before he knew it. She stared up at him, eyes probably just as wide as his. He wasn’t sure what to make of her expression, only that he knew she was the ticket to water and food.

“Water,” he begged. “I need water and food.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and suddenly joy pierced her expression. She turn and ran, each step bounding and taunting of Lance’s inability to do so. If he had that kind of strength, he’d be out of the estate in a minute flat.

“Starvation and near-death experiences always trigger it,” Keith said as he walked around Lance and pulled him along by the arm. He stumbled to keep up. “You become a temptation I can hardly resist.”

“Then let me leave,” Lance demanded, and even in such a bland, scratchy voice, it still managed to strike something in Keith that made the man laugh.

“Nice try. I said _hardly_ resist,” he said, and suddenly Keith’s hands were on his shoulders and forcing him to sit. “Normally it takes four days and severe dehydration. Wouldn’t you think your charming becomes weaker as you _physically_ become weaker? It’s an inverse relationship.”

“You’ve done your research,” Lance all but whispered, and he could feel Keith’s breath on his neck as he leaned in to listen. He reached forward for the ash tray and put his cigarette out.

Katie was in the room. The instant he spotted her, he nearly lunged from his chair. Keith’s hands, though, were just as strong as the restraints he used to hold Lance down for three days. Though, he couldn’t stop Lance from frantically reaching with both hands for the pitcher of water. He screamed soundlessly at the pain in his hand when he tried to grip the pitcher, and nearly dropped it. 

Keith held onto it, pulling the silver tray in front of the both of them as he took a seat beside Lance. He held the bottom of the pitcher, watching Lance through the glass as he gulped and gulped. He forcefully pulled it away to give Lance air, and said, “Take it slow,” which he followed up with, “I can’t believe I’m saying that to you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Lance spat, lips cracking as he took the pitcher back and reached shakily for a glass. 

Someone took the water from him, and said quietly, “Let me pour it. You’re shaking.”

He turned and stared at Katie as she studied her work of pouring Lance a glass of water. She mutely handed him the cup, glancing at Keith as she did so. “I’ll get him juice—something with sugar in it.”

“Agreed,” he said, dismissing her with a flick of his hand.

Lance sipped on water as he stared across the table at the paintings on the walls. It was so light and pristine that Lance could have tricked himself into believe that only the innocent could live here. That was difficult to do, especially when he was sitting in the nude beside a psychopath. 

Keith tugged on the tray and reached over it to pick up a fork. “Which do you want first,” he said, looking up to find Lance staring at him. At last he huffed, rolling his eyes, “As if I’ll put a fork anywhere near you.”

“The, um… the applesauce,” he confessed, still unable to swallow his own saliva without feeling like his tongue would go with it.

Keith took up a spoon instead and lifted it to the desert terrane of Lance’s mouth. Once Lance came closer to his usual self, he found himself realizing that there was nothing endearing, nothing spectacular, about the way Keith fed him. He fed Lance as though he were a creature he was studying through glass. He watched the way Lance’s mouth closed over the spoon, the fork, as if wondering, _Why would anyone need to do this? Why would anyone have to eat?_

Lance realized that had he been allowed the spoon, he would have devoured the plate and made himself sick on it. Keith paced him, and slapped his hand away whenever he tried to shove food in his mouth by the handfuls. 

“Pidge, take the tray away,” Keith ordered after a while, to where Katie was standing not far away like a statue. Lance chased after it with his hands, and prepared to stand up had Keith not grabbed him by the hand—the one that caused him to scream out.

“ _Ow!_ Let go—!” Lance shrieked, fearing to yank on it even as Keith dragged him back down with it. His cheeks hurt to scream. “My _hand—_ ”

“Convincing argument,” he mused allowed, that grin hinting at the corner of his mouth. “But I’m going to have to pass on that.” He squeezed his fist around Lance’s bandages.

He whimpered out, “What do you want? _What do you want?_ Please, just let go.”

“I want you to stop saying peoples’ names,” he bit out, and when Lance donned a bewildered expression, he reached up and grabbed Lance by the bruised cheeks. “Your _friend_ Shirogane came for a visit the other day. I _don’t_ want you calling up _anyone else_. Do you hear me?”

“Shiro?” he repeated dumbly, and cried out when Keith released his face to bring back his hand. “ _Wait!_ No, I didn’t mean—” He was silenced by a _crack!_ that blossomed on his face. 

Lance barely recovered from the first slap he ever experienced in his life before his head was slammed into the table. Keith pushed him down with an elbow against his shoulder blades, forearm pressing into his neck, and his fist full of Lance’s hair. Even to Lance’s sluggish mind, Keith seemed far too quick to be “average” at self-defense. 

Lance’s arm was pulled out to the side, and Keith ripped at the bandage even as Lance tried to pull his hand back. “You want to say that again?” Keith hissed in his ear. 

“N-No! No, I hadn’t meant to—!” he stuttered, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt, rather than heard, Katie come back into the room. 

“ _Pidge!_ ” Keith roared, dropping Lance’s hand. His arm dropped like a rock, and he practically sobbed in relief. 

“Yessir,” she squeaked, hurrying over.

“Start up the fireplace,” he demanded.

Lance peeled open his eyes to look at Katie. She stared at Keith, amber eyes like glass as she looked down at Lance. They barely made eye contact before she turned on her heels and ran to start the fire. 

Lance was _completely_ aware that the entire dining room consisted of windows. It was why the room was so light from the row of skylights, and the wall of glass behind them. It was probably why his nudity felt so much more revealing, and was also probably why Keith reached between them and undid the buttons around his crotch. 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Lance seethed, about to shove him back. Keith rammed him into the edge of the table, and he gasped at the bruises now likely imbedded on his hipbones. “ _No!_ Keith—”

“Tell me not to, and I won’t,” Keith hissed at him, already pressing into him. “ _Say it_.”

Lance leaned over the table, furious with not only Keith, but himself. Why the _fuck_ wasn’t his magic working? Why the _fuck_ was someone allowed to do this to him? It wasn’t right—it wasn’t right— _it wasn’t right_ —“ _G-Get off of me_ ,” Lance snarled, but no matter how many times he said it, it was as if every word was becoming less significant to the both of them.

Keith was a noisy fucker as far as Lance knew. That first night Lance craved every sound of it because that was how he liked it most of the time. Loud, and inconceivably proud.

In his rage, Lance wanted to strangle the smothering words out of Keith’s throat. The feel of Keith’s hot breath damping the back of his neck became something that crawled out of horror stories and up his spine in an ugly shudder. He never imagined that this was what sex felt like—so degrading, so inhumane, so _repulsive_ that his hard-on felt like a betrayal. How could his body appreciate this defilement when his mind was combusting?

Keith fucked him through the high of it before pulling out and stepping back. Without some security, Lance crumbled, hiding his stricken expression in the shadows under the table. His pulsing hand rested on the table as everything in his stomach felt like it was churning up his throat. He suddenly wished he hadn’t drank so much water, especially when Keith had repeatedly shoved him into the edge of the table.

When Keith dragged him off the ground, Lance could feel the slime between his legs growing cold. He held off his vomit as Keith pulled him down the length of the table, trousers secure again and expression schooled. “ _Pidge!_ ”

“Here, sir! The fire is prepped.”

“No— _”_ Lance started, eyes growing wide as he grappled for the fist Keith held on his arm. He yanked on Keith’s long fingers, feet skidding as he was dragged into the next room, and the room after that where the carpet burned the heels of his feet. His voice rose like the chunks of vomit threatening to escape his stomach as he saw Pidge holding an iron stick into the flames. He only saw her pass it, the tip of it raging reds and orange, to Keith before he was thrown onto the carpet.

The rug hit his cheek, and he clawed at it with has hands to get onto his feet and _run_ —

  


  


“ _You are_ mine _and no one else’s_.”

Lance was a doll. He was thrown anywhere and played with. He laid motionless on the mattress where Keith left him after the branding, where it felt like the blisters on his back were hot bubbles of lava popping his flesh open. He stared uselessly at the walls and ceiling, and the window in the room _Lance chose_ the night Keith drugged him.

He wondered if he could starve himself again and have the strength to demand Keith let him go instead of asking for food. Why was he _so fucking stupid?_ He should have asked for his own escape and been escorted out without a problem. Keith was better equipped for this—he probably dealt with others like Lance to know that the first thing he’d ask for was water, not freedom. 

Morning turned into evening faster than Lance anticipated, and he appreciated that sentiment, at least. He could only spend so long staring at a wall before he grew bored, if not frantic to be left along again. Despite how much he loathed to see Keith again… those days he spent alone were pure torture. He never went so long without seeing a single face, and to have it coupled with starvation and an aching bladder…

The door creaked open behind Lance, but he stayed put, hoping that whoever it was wouldn’t see how stiff the noise made him go. “It’s just me,” Pidge whispered, hurrying around the bed to see Lance. He noted, dully, that she had a first aid box with her. 

“Is… Keith with you?” He hated himself for asking the second he did, because he sounded so weak and feeble that he wondered why she wasn’t laughing at him then.

“No. No—it’s just me,” she reassured him. “Making sure you aren’t infected. I have to re-bandage your hand as well.” 

She crawled onto the bed next to him. She was wearing long, baggy, patterned pants that hitched up beyond her waist in the fashion of a fake skirt. Her hands were gentle on his back as she grazed the disinfectant over the blisters. He clenched his teeth against the pillow to keep from bloodying his throat from screaming again.

As she cushioned the brand with a wide square of gauze, he asked, voice just as teary as his eyes, “Why are you doing this?”

“I want to help you, and Mister Kogane told me to,” she said. 

“No, I mean… why are you _here_?” he asked. “You can _leave_ , you know?”

“I do leave. On occasion,” she told him. “But… M-Mister Kogane has given me everything I need. And he doesn’t hurt children, so… I’m safe. And I’m here to help you because you don’t have to worry about me.”

“But your…” He didn’t know if it was appropriate to talk about her family. Katie Holt’s family. He was starting to think that Katie and Pidge were two entirely different people. There was the before—Katie—and the after—Pidge.

The question seemed to linger, and Pidge picked it up because she was probably familiar with that silence. “Things would be far more difficult if I wasn’t here,” she said with such certainty, he found himself twisting to look up at her. He could feel the tape on the bandage tugging at his skin when he did so. “I don’t have any other relatives nearby—they all traveled away before I was born, and my grandparents on both sides of the family died. I’d be put into the foster care system, or in a home, because that’s the last resort. Where… people who aren’t as kind as Mister Kogane would be taking care of me.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” he said, lying back down and stretching out his broken fingers to her. She cut through the ribbons of the old gauze, and he waited to feel each bone reset again where Keith had bent and curled them. 

They never talked about how the visitor—Shiro—came, and Pidge was unsuccessful in conveying Lance’s capture here. They never talked about how _she_ had been the one to start the fire, and to heat up the branding iron in the first place. They never talked about how inadvertently, Lance was absurdly indignant towards her now.

He didn’t care to hear any of her tragic backstories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!
> 
> Like I said I didn't want to make the rape scenes super explicit, so... did that work? Or was it too subtle? Too gross? idk my dudes I figured since it was the first rape scene I could probably go for "gross" above all else.
> 
> Also, you can fight me over on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/) :O


	4. officer shirogane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research on sexuality in the 1920s, and... for the most part there was a lot of gay activism back then, but it led to a lot of police raids and arrests in gay bars, clubs, and bathhouses and they'd even go so far as to shut down establishments that were pro-homosexuality. But likewise, there were also a lot of famous actors and actresses who came out and participated in plays and movies openly discussing homosexuality. 
> 
> So I decided to take the route where it's dangerous for powerful people to be accused of homosexuality in fear of backlash, because that's just how it was back in the day because corporate America SUCCCKS.

Shiro was sick from the anxiety of not knowing where Lance was. Lance _never_ disappeared like that—he was too much of a social butterfly to survive even a night alone in his apartment. On more than one occasion Lance called Shiro up late at night because he was “scared of the dark,” and while that was probably true, Shiro often suspected that Lance had a fear of being alone. 

The first time he was skeptical, considering all he knew of Lance was that his charming was irresistible, just like his beautiful complexion. He wondered, selfishly, if this was just an excuse to cover up how horny Lance was, so he decided it’d better be safe than sorry. He packed a night bag with his uniform in it for the following morning, and drove to Lance’s apartment in downtown Seattle. 

When the door opened, Lance’s first words were, “You can sleep on the couch if you want, only if you don’t want to share a bed. I don’t have a guest room.”

Shiro had been both startled and relieved by the abrupt introduction. “Okay. Whatever makes you feel better,” he said, and Lance shrugged, stepping back to let Shiro in. 

“Sorry for calling so late at night,” he said. “And just after we both left the dance hall—! God, I’m such an idiot. And you even _asked_ if I wanted to _come over—_ ”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Shiro said, laughing a little. “I don’t mind.”

They both walked into the living room to study his grandmother’s floral-printed loveseat—pretty much the only acceptable chair to sleep on. “I could just sleep on the floor if you don’t want me on your bed,” Shiro suggested, because they were both coming to terms with the fact that Shiro was just too tall for a loveseat.

Lance burst out laughing and slapped him on the arm before shuffling over to the bedroom, tugging his silk robe around him as he said, “ _Please_. Come on, just get over here.”

“You totally planned this—you had no intention of letting me sleep on a loveseat,” Shiro accused, smiling though as he tossed his duffle onto the couch and followed after Lance.

“I don’t know how much you like to snuggle! I’m a clingy guy—and… _shit_ , I hope that doesn’t turn you off. Sorry—not a lot of people like clingy bedmates,” he blurted out, fretting over it now as they stood on opposite sides of the bed from one another. Shiro found it endearing, how frantically Lance’s mind work in the middle of the night.

“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s either you or I’m hugging a pillow. Which do you prefer?” 

A smile graced Lance’s mouth as he hurriedly crawled onto the bed and tucked himself under the covers. Shiro followed him and waited as Lance curled into him like a beloved cat gravitated towards warmth. They laid together, awake and staring at the ceiling, until Shiro heard Lance clear his throat.

“Is it… _sad_ that I kind of miss having my siblings around?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Shiro responded, because he felt that way on occasion—though it was more out of sorrow for other factors rather than their absence. “A lot of my family isn’t even in America. I miss them.”

“I’m… I’m an idiot—sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s fine.”

“But you must envy me for having my family so close—well, closer than the distance between you and your family,” he explained. “San Diego wasn’t the place for me, though. I’m glad I moved up here—I like the cold weather. You said some of your relatives came with you, though?”

“Yeah. It made the transition easier. They live in northern Beacon Hill area, you know? They wanted to be around other Japanese immigrants in hopes of understanding life here a little better,” Shiro confessed, sighing nostalgically as he realized that he truly missed being able to speak Japanese so effortlessly with them. It took ages for him to even _think_ in English, let alone bother to erase his accent. 

He knew his relatives scorned him for it. It was like erasing his accent took his entire racial identity with it.

Lance loved those sorts of talks, Shiro realized, even as he listened to Lance’s sighs turn into soft, steady, sleepy breaths. Eventually he drifted off to the calm white noise Lance created.

He was worried that something happened. Or was Lance just simply angry with him for some reason? Had he fled home, to where his mother was? But Shiro was certain he hadn’t said anything wrong that night, and he was certain there had been such profound distress in Lance’s mental message.

Going over to the Kogane Estate had been unsettling, and frustrating all the same. Sure, discussing one night stands with a stranger wasn’t exactly an easy topic—let alone one night stands as a homosexual relation during the time Shiro came to discuss it with Mister Kogane. The instant Kogane’s servant brought the man of the house over, Shiro realized dreadfully that he really shouldn’t be accusing powerful, wealthy men of hurting someone, let alone being gay.

“Um…” he started, dumbly as Mister Kogane looked up. His eyes widened a fraction, taking in the sight of Shiro in his uniform, before a faint sigh released between his lips.

“Has something happened, officer?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest. 

_Fuck, I should have had a speech prepared,_ Shiro moaned internally. “Uh, yes. I’m looking for a suspected missing person. Do you mind if I ask a few questions? About… the party you hosted last night?”

He half-hoped Kogane would decline the offer. That would be a stronger conviction to damn him with. “Not at all,” he said instead, gesturing for Shiro to enter. “I can’t say I spent much time at the party myself, but I’d be happy to answer any inquiries you might have.”

So Shiro followed him through the white walls, and the marble floors and columns. He had a general list that he’d used before during missing persons cases, so he called it up on his notepad before they ever reached the sitting room surrounded by open windows and deep red curtains. They sat adjacent to one another, flanking a corner of the fireplace as Shiro started the questions.

“So you agree that you hosted a party the previous night?”

“I do.”

“Do you keep a list of all attendants?”

“I do—but friends of guests are unexpected surprises. I hire out on those nights and normally there’s a guard at the front gate checking for invitations and counting off unexpected arrivals.”

“So would you assume that the missing person would be on this list, regardless of whether or not they had an invitation?”

“Yes. Their name is probably down somewhere. Would you like to check?” Mister Kogane asked, and Shiro found it difficult to maintain eye contact with someone so unblinking. Thankfully, though Shiro was just as unmovable to see Mister Kogane’s subtle expression when he spoke next.

“No. I know for a fact that he is on the list because I was at the party with him last night. This is all just formality to ensure our stories line up.” _Antipathy_. It showed in the astute narrowing of his eyes, and how he suspected he was being accused of something.

“What are you suggesting, Officer Shirogane?” he all but hissed. “And I hardly expect it’s some racial bullshit since we are considered to be ‘on the same team’.”

“I am on no one’s team. That comes with the job,” Shiro said. “But if it’s a matter of suggestion, you taking Lance McClain to bed that night says enough.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mister Kogane said. “Do you realize what sort of repercussions your accusation would make of me?”

“If it’s any consolation—we _are_ on the same team in that regards,” he started, which hardly seemed to pacify Mister Kogane. It only seemed to make his aversion towards Shiro fester. “Our conversation is private, Mister Kogane. Nothing you say now will be spread or slandered against you. This is only to assist in finding McClain.”

“And what would _your_ relationship be with Lance if you’re asking about mine?” he snapped at Shiro, who sputtered at the question.

“This has _nothing_ to do with my connections to Lance,” he insisted. “I know him well enough to be his plus-one to your party. And I happened to _see_ the two of you leaving together.”

“I’m not so naïve to assume you won’t spread this,” he all but snarled, standing up. “Whatever happened to Lance has nothing to do with me, I assure you—but I will _not_ discuss what you’re implying about last night.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Shiro insisted. “I simply want to know whether or not Lance left, and at what time.”

“Around two-thirty AM. He left,” Kogane said, sharply, gesturing out of the sitting room, as if to punctuate where both Lance, and Shiro, would leave. “Anything else.”

Before Shiro could wrack his brain for the approximate time _he_ left, and realized Lance’s car was gone, he was asking, “Did he leave in the same clothes he arrived in?”

“No. He left with one of my shirts. It’s a red button-up with gold detailing on the cuff and collar. It’s a gift I brought with me from Korea,” he said. “And if you happen to _find_ Lance, tell him to return it.”

“Yes, I will,” Shiro said, and added, “Don’t be surprised if more officers come to question you. Just fair warning.”

“So kind of you.” Kogane’s sarcasm was like an icepick. _How could Lance sleep with a guy like him?_ Shiro found himself wondering as he followed the angle of Mister Kogane’s arm pointing to the door. 

He saw himself out, aware that the timid bartender from the night before was standing in the foyer to see him out. “Have a nice day, Mr. Shirogane,” she said as she closed the door behind him. She ducked her head back inside, already turning away before the lock clicked in place.

Shiro stepped down, flanked on either side by elegant columns and magnificent rose bushes. He stared up the length of them, to the closed windows and white, polished siding. He looked down at his pad of paper and scribbled down what Mister Kogane said about the red shirt, the time Lance left. It was after Shiro was gone from the party with Hunk. 

He wished desperately that he would have waited for Lance.

  


  


When Keith came into the room next, Lance kept his eyes closed even as Keith undid the restraints, and he sat up on the bed. He wondered if it was possible to convince himself that this was Pidge if he kept his eyes closed. But then Keith just had to go and talk, grabbing him by the jaw and forcing his eyes open.

“I will not starve you again if you do as I say,” he said. “Starvation will be your punishment for now, understood? Either that or withholding your cigarettes.”

Lance didn’t say anything in fear that he’d spit at Keith instead of projecting words. 

“Next time will be four days,” Keith went on. “Would you like to go four days without food?”

Lance twisted his mouth into a tight line and bit out, “ _No_.”

“Good. Now stand up.”

He dropped Lance’s chin and stepped back from the bed to watch Lance crawl over, careful to keep his back only partially straight. Keeping a straight back just seemed to wrinkle the scabs that the branding mark put in place between his shoulder blades. 

“Leave the room,” he demanded, and so Lance did, feeling Keith’s presence behind him the entire way. 

Pidge was waiting outside of the door, and the moment they left, she hurried in to wrench the sheets and blankets off the bed to change them. Lance kept his hand cradled to his chest, following Keith’s instructions to the third floor where Keith passed him to shove open the double doors of… a suite. 

Lance hesitated several paces from the threshold, only to be dragged in by the wrist again. “ _No!_ ” he shrieked, remembering the last time Keith dragged him across carpet. His back flared up at the memory of it.

“Calm _down!_ Jesus—” Keith snarled, yanking Lance by both wrists across the room. They passed the bed—thank _God_ —and stumbled clumsily through another door, and onto tiled flooring.

Keith let Lance collapse onto the floor, and in his panic he shoved himself towards the tight space between the sink and toilet. His back rammed into the porcelain, and it brought tears to his eyes as he winced up at Keith, who looked more or less annoyed by his drama. 

“I’ve got clothes for you here. Pidge suggested something light for the mark, yada-yada-yada,” he drawled, pointing to where a stack of towels were topped with dark, silky fabric. “Now, _up_. C’mon, we need to clean you up.”

Lance stared at him as if Keith just grew a third head, on top of the second one he sprouted the instant he broke Lance’s fingers. When he didn’t move, Keith hitched his hands under Lance’s armpits and heaved him to his feet and into the shower. And then he started to remove his own clothes. 

Lance’s instincts flared up and he slammed the shower door shut between them. They both seemed equally surprised, and it was almost comical how Keith, now shirtless with his fly open, stared at Lance through the cloudy glass.

It took a minute for Keith to lunge for the door and try to wrench it open, but something seemed to seize control of Lance and prevent him from so much as budging where his hands were glued to the handle. He recalled how fast Keith had been, slamming him over the table and yanking his wounded hand away. But somehow, they were an even match. 

Keith’s hands slipped over the flat handle and he swore and cursed at Lance through the glass. He was overjoyed by this single feat he managed against Keith. It wasn’t until later that Lance would realized that Keith had no intentions of fucking him in the shower, and maybe that would have been the case if he hadn’t let his instincts take over. Contrary to everything Lance believed of Keith, shower sex was not on the list. 

It was entirely beneath Keith’s methods, but he made an exception when he finally kicked off his pants and ripped open the door and sent Lance staggering and falling over the drain. Keith’s strength suddenly seemed underestimated, considering he could lift Lance without batting an eye, and slam his back into the shower wall. 

“ _Ow!_ My back—the blisters—”

“Let them open,” Keith hissed at him, slamming him back again. 

The thing about wall sex was that Lance couldn’t stop his back from rubbing up and down the wall, tearing the tape off the now-soaked bandage. The puss and bloodied patch fell, and he grappled to push himself away, but Keith would only shove his shoulder back into the wall again.

He could barely stand for the remainder of the shower. Keith finished with him and flicked on the shower head, slamming the door shut, _furiously_ , as if fucking Lance into the wall did _nothing_ to appease him. He took a clean sponge and doused it in soap and water and roughly scrubbed the backs of Lance’s legs even as Lance cornered himself into the far back of the shower.

It was one of those magnificently-sized showers that Lance always wished he had. The water came from above and seemed to mist the entire area. Keith pulled him under the current of it, and it was nice until the water rushed over his bloodied back and reminded him of the red spot on the wall. 

Keith left the shower abruptly and slammed the door so hard, it bounced back. Lance watched him grab a rag from one of the cabinets, and grab a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. _Shit_. 

“No, just let Pidge take care of it, please,” Lance told him, but he was already dousing the towel over the sink. “ _Please_ , she can take care of it—”

“I know she fucking can,” Keith snapped. “Now _shut up_. The mark became shit when you fought me afterwards anyways. We can’t screw it up any more than it already is.”

Lance bristled at the memory of it. Immediately after the branding, he screamed and thrashed so much that Keith pinned him to the rug where he continued to writhe and cut open the surrounding inflamed flesh, imprinting the carpet with his blood.

Keith came into the shower, towel _dripping with alcohol_. Lance backed himself up into the corner again, only to be heaved away from it and slammed face-first into the wall. Keith pressed the towel over the entirity of the wound, and the dead skin started sizzling instantly. 

  


  


Lance held his wounded hand close to his torso, wherever it happened to rest—on his chest, stomach, against his bicep as if hugging himself. 

He knew Keith left every now and then. Whenever an engine started, Lance assumed it was Keith leaving considering Pidge never came in to slam the window shut again. She kept it open for him when he was chained to the bed—now able to sit rather than lay flat on his back, considering the pain his back was in. He’d sit where the breeze could touch it through the light fabric of his night shirt, and where it could lighten the end of his cigarette with an orange flare.

Keith couldn’t possibly spend all day _watching_ Lance, could he? Didn’t he have better things to do?

Lance kept himself as close to the headboard as he could, and as far from Keith as the restraints would allow. His legs felt like noodles, like doll legs that his hands were forced to move. He tucked a pillow to his stomach and hugged it, 

He huffed in annoyance, scowling at Keith as he finally said, “Could you stop staring at me?”

“How do you know I’m staring? You aren’t even looking at me.”

“Considering you know _that_ much…” he grumbled, but it was true. He kept his eyes somewhere along the lines of the mattress meeting the headboard. After a harsh swallow, Lance cupped his hand towards his mouth as if to muffle his whisper, “Can you please leave?”

“I’m sure you know the drill by now,” he answered, and Lance begged internally for his helplessness to _go away_. He couldn’t possibly expect his charming to work if he felt so weak because of it. It hadn’t done _shit_ for him except get him food and his first cigarette. But it’d been a sufficient amount of time for Lance to forget how painful the hunger was, and how even that feat seamed insignificant when put up against all the times his charming failed him against Keith.

“You know I can’t,” Lance said weakly. “I don’t know what you _want from me_.”

“I can always resist you when I’m trying,” Keith said. “If you ask me to leave the room now, _convincingly_ , I won’t fight it.”

“How is it possible to _resist it_ ,” Lance all but spat out. “I’ve never heard of that horseshit before.”

“Would you prefer I beat you half to death until I’m unable to ignore the word ‘stop’ coming from your pretty mouth?” he remarked, and Lance flinched at the threat. “Didn’t think so.”

“So what?” Lance sighed, desperately clinging to the cigarette with his mouth and sucking as much of it into his mouth as possible. It came out in plumes as he spoke. “Are you trying to make my charms as effective as they are when I’m on the brink of starvation or death?”

“Yes,” Keith admitted, and Lance groaned and rolled his eyes. “Or gone three days without a ciggy—that usually contributes to it.”

“You can’t be serious,” he sighed. “I. Can’t. _Do what you want_.”

“ _Yes_ , you can. You did it before, and you can do it again,” Keith hissed at him. “I _literally_ couldn’t stop myself from giving you the cigarette. _Not_ giving it to you wasn’t even an option. I want _that_ version of you, Lance. And as much as I love messing around with you, I’m hoping I won’t have to even provoke you for it.”

Lance looked up and stared at him, blinking vacantly before he sneered, “ _Messing with me?_ You call _this_ a fucking _game?_ ”

He felt the bed dip closer to him, and he would have flung himself off the bed if the act wouldn’t break his ankle that was attached to the headboard. Keith’s hand grabbed hold of Lance’s, wrestling the cigarette out of his fingers to crush it in the ashtray. Lance pressed himself away, only to find himself sandwiched between the headboard and Keith’s heavy, demanding force.

Lance grimaced, an unintentional squeak breaking through him when Keith pressed his thumb to the center of the mark. _Well, at least it’s not another broken finger_ , he told himself as he felt Keith press his lips to the shell of Lance’s ear.

They waited in silence as Lance managed to control his breathing again. 

“Watch your tone,” Keith warned, and pulled away a fraction to see Lance’s expression. 

He swallowed hard before stammering out, “B-But why would you want me to control _you_? Isn’t th-that counterproductive?”

“Not at all,” Keith answered. “Because I know what I’m doing. And I know that you’ll be enough to help me get rid of someone who’s in my way.”

Lance rubbed his wrist under his nose where it was weeping. He sniffed and said, “I don’t understand. I can’t— _kill anybody_ —”

“The killing is for me to worry about—not you,” Keith reassured him, and Lance relaxed a little. “Besides, I’d much rather experience that satisfaction. Wouldn’t want to make me jealous by doing the job for me, would you? And besides. It will be simple because there’s no way for him to know you exist, or to even know a _charmer_ as powerful as yourself.”

Lance scoffed a little, looking away as Keith continued, “Oh, come on. I’m not trying to flatter you. It’s just the truth.”

“It isn’t. And I wouldn’t put ‘flattering’ under your skillset,” Lance huffed, and regretted it for the silence that followed. He was about to apologize when he jumped with a start at the sound of Keith howling with laughter. 

Lance was so startled that even when Keith finished, his eyes were wide and staring at Keith. Keith rubbed a hand over his cheek and sighed, shaking his head at Lance. “Pidge would agree with you there,” he said, chuckling a little. Eventually, he came back to himself as he slipped off the end of the bed. 

“Could I have another cigarette?” Lance asked, but Keith just waved him off as he started for the door. “You know how it goes. Convince me.”

Keith left, as Lance assumed he did once in a while. A car engine started under his window, and the crunch of the wheels against dirt and gravel faded down the asphalt driveway. Lance sat there, picking at the clamp on his ankle, before he decided to have a look around. 

Since getting there, he hasn’t _really_ searched the room. He saw its exterior—its facade—but… that seemed to be all it was. It was an empty, boring room with nothing in the end tables, and nothing under the bed that he could reach. He tried to grab the wardrobe door, but failed, and so he used the lampshade to reach farther and hook on the handle. There wasn’t a single article of clothing in there. All that was there happened to be the scent of freshly sanded wood.

He slumped against the bed with a huff, and peered up at the drapery again. Keith wasn’t here. 

_Keith wasn’t here_.

“Shiro,” he started as a whisper, hugging his hands over his mouth as if just saying his best friend’s name would bring Keith straight back. He progressively raised his voice until he was screaming it with such force, his tongue went numb under the sparks. He screamed his throat dry yelling Shiro’s name—

—Until the door burst open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Lance.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/).


	5. suicide watch

Lance was surprised to feel something slap across his back—straight over the mark. His screams dissipated to an abrupt whimper, retracting his back against the headboard as he saw Pidge scowling at him from the other side of the bed, whipping the stick back up. “Whoa! Hey, what’re you _doing?_ ” Lance shouted, cringing at the stripe of heat pulsating on his back now. 

She was glaring ruthlessly at him, pushing off the bed and twisting the stick back. “If you keep shouting his name, I’ll put that cloth right back in your mouth,” she hissed at him. 

He was so shocked, all he could do was stare. She huffed at him, flicking out one of the arm restraints. “ _No!_ What the hell are you doing? Keith isn’t here—we could escape! C’mon, undo my other restraint,” he insisted, holding out his leg. She whipped out the stick again, and slashed it at his ankle. “ _Ow!_ What the fuck’s gotten into you? Don’t you want to leave?”

She hit him again and tossed the stick aside in favor of scrambling over the bed for his wrist. He shrieked and nearly fell, if only she hadn’t had the strength of a _bear_ and hauled him across the sheets. “No! Leave me _alone!_ ” he screamed, yelping as she secured the restraint, even as he thrashed about. 

He was attached to two opposite ends of the bed—uncomfortably, considering his ankle was still stuck to the other side of the headboard. She grabbed his good wrist and pinned it to the far end of the bed so he was, yet again, in starfish formation, but sideways. 

“ _Katie!_ Come on, this isn’t _necessary_! We’re on the same team—”

“Like hell we are.”

It was always surprising to hear cuss words come out of the mouths of children, let alone young girls who were so accustom to maintaining high airs in front of men. Lance looked over at her, and where her mouth twisted into a tight sneer. “Ex _cuse me?_ ” he blurted out.

She sighed and threw down her arms. “I’m sick of your dramatics! I don’t see how Keith _stands it_.”

“So suddenly you’re on a first-name basis with him?” Lance snapped, and yelped when she whipped up the stick again. “ _All right!_ All right—you _clearly_ have a problem with authority, I won’t test i— _EY! Put it down!_ Put the stick down!”

She smacked him on the head, _hard_ , with the stick, and again on the back as if to _see how he liked it_. “If I put the stick down, Keith hears all about this,” she told him, and his jaw dropped, and it felt more or less humorous to hear her like this.

“Oh, come on. You’re just kidding aro- _OW! JESUS—_ Who gave you that stick?” he cried out, flinching away from her and trying to dodge the attacks as best he could. It was starting to feel like he was being pelted by _hail_. He could already feel the bruises on his shoulders starting to swell. 

She grew bored of prodding him and just walked off without another word. He stared after her as she tapped the stick on the furniture as she strolled across the room, and swung it back and forth in the doorway so it rattled against the frame. “Keith told me not to bruise you. So either way—he’ll know something happened the second he rips those _stupid silk robes off you_.”

“This is a nice shirt, you _bitch_ ,” he snarled at her, and just spoke louder when she came after him again. “ _What?_ I find it hard to believe he talks about his sex life with a _spoilt little girl_ who should probably learn to _bite her tongue—_ ”

  


  


“So… you’re telling me you… gave _yourself_ a black eye? And hit yourself against the headboard until Pidge was forced to restrain you?” Keith said that night when he got back and was dragged into the room by the hand by Pidge.

Lance hissed a sigh through his teeth, the tension in his shoulders making it hard to accurately portray his exhaustion. “ _Yes_. What Pidge said.”

“I tried to stop him, sir,” Pidge said, swinging her shoulders to and fro so her skirt swished. “He took the lampshade there and ripped out the wires, too.”

Lance regretted using it to check inside the wardrobe. Pidge stabbed through the fabric of it and tore the wires out of it. “Tried to kill himself with it,” she explained, pointing to the red marks on Lance’s neck where she strangled him while she had yelled, “ _If Keith finds out you yelled for Shiro_ —!”

“We can’t have that,” Keith hummed, pinching his finger to his chin. Lance looked away then, knowing that he probably looked like complete shit anyways with the black eye. He’d never gotten slapped or hit before, so the throbbing of his eyelid was entirely new to him. Though, since the starvation period, Lance couldn’t seem to stop tears from leaking out of his eyes at odd occasions. His eyelids were already swollen nearly shut from the crying alone.

“Pidge, you’re on suicide watch now,” Keith ordered, and instantly Lance tensed up.

“ _Wait!_ ” he yelped the second he saw Pidge’s cruel grin return. But when Keith turned back to him, he wasn’t sure _where_ he was going with this. He just knew he didn’t want to be beaten by _either_ of them. Not again. “I… I won’t do it again. And. And _besides_ —I’m restrained! I can’t do anything anyways!”

“You’d be surprised,” Keith huffed, and the way he said it caused Lance to silence all his moaning and groaning to wonder about it. What did he mean by that? _Had_ people committed suicide in his custody, even tied up like this?

Lance was so thrown by this realization that he hardly realized that Keith was gone until Pidge leapt onto the bed and pounced onto his back. She had a book in her possession, and would sit with her back against the pillows, and legs slung over Lance as though he was her footrest. And as she jostled him around with her feet, he continued to wonder, _How_ did _people commit suicide when they have no use of their arms and legs?_

  


  


“I don’t understand where he could have gone,” Shiro confessed dully as he followed Hunk through the damp grass of the Garrett Estate gardens. They stood at the base of the waterfall dripping over smooth black stones as he explained, “I really shouldn’t be discussing this with you, but you’re close to Lance.”

“Not nearly as close as the two of you. I couldn’t even tell you where his parents live, or what their address is,” Hunk confessed. They had just finished discussing the call Shiro made to Lance’s parents—as casually put as possible. He didn’t want to concern them while Lance was still considered a grown adult who knew what he was doing, rather than that of a _truly_ missing person. 

It didn’t help that Hunk didn’t know what Lance was. Shiro always assumed it was something Lance would share with Hunk himself, and there was so little known about emotion-based magic that he wasn’t entirely convinced that it would change anything Hunk knew Lance was capable of. 

“Do you have any relatives who practice magic?” Shiro asked abruptly, which seemed to startle Hunk. It was like asking out of the blue what religion is family practiced.

“Um… a few. Why? A lot of my younger cousins are interested in it, but I’m sure they’ll grow out of it,” Hunk confessed, rubbing a hand under his chin as he considered the matter further. “But for the most part… nothing serious. They don’t have jobs that require magic.”

“Are you… familiar with charming then?” Shiro asked. “Well, aside from European charming.”

“Not entirely. That’s more innate magic, isn’t it? You can’t learn it like you can the rest,” Hunk explained, scuffing his worn walking shoes against the stones lining a pool of water. “I never got into it. Magic just never really fit me, which is ironic. Considering how much I love art. A lot of artists excel in, or at least _use_ , magic.”

“And also ironic, considering the rest of your family loves art as much as they do.”

“This is true.”

They were approached by one of Hunk’s butlers, delivering a tray of beverages. No more than five minutes after accepting the drink, Shiro noted ripples in his glass, and how it was starting to collect rain. “Perhaps we should go inside,” Shiro suggested with a laugh, peering up at the overcast.

“Agreed,” Hunk giggled, and they started up the steps back to the house. As they walked, he said, “But… I don’t see Lance as the sort of guy to wander off without telling anyone. Have you contacted his workplace? Is he scheduled for a vacation?”

“No. I spoke with his supervisor yesterday, actually. I’m afraid he hasn’t been in at all this week—I’m just thankful that his boss is more concerned than angry. It seems like he won’t be fired for skipping work, at least, considering how much they appreciate him,” he sighed, “I just… I have this terrible feeling that he needs my help.”

Hunk rubbed Shiro’s shoulder and said, “I’m sure wherever he is, you’ll find him. If you need anything to help, I’d be happy to assist.”

“Thank you. And, for the sake of things, could you help me compose a list of his favorite hangouts?” he asked, and together the two of them set to work naming off the dance halls and clubs Lance frequented, the bars and cafés, and the parks he walked through when he was feeling especially melancholy. It was Shiro’s day off, so he sought to go to as many of these places as he could and inquire about Lance.

He ordered a coffee at Lance’s favorite café simply to speak to the waitress about Lance, what she knew of him, what days he came in usually. “I know money isn’t always easy to come by,” she said, “But he always tips will. Tell him I say hi when you see him!”

“Will do,” Shiro said. He tipped her well mostly out of obligation now that Lance set the standards.

A block down from the café as the boardwalk overlooking Elliott Bay. As he looked around the park lining it, he half-hoped, half-dreaded to find Lance passed out under one of the park benches. Lance wasn’t anywhere in sight, though, and with the fog that the rain brought in, it wasn’t exactly populated enough to ask questions about a tall, dark-skinned, brown-haired man who frequented the place.

So Shiro continued on, and walked along the marketplace. It was nearly noon, which meant that the place was _packed_ with people from in and outside of the city. He bought a pastry from one of the vendors and munched on it as he fretted over Lance, and how haunting his distress was.

He stood on the cusp of the marketplace, where it collided with the city and the traffic. There were small corner shops along the way, and kitty-corner from him happened to be the bank. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it had he not recognized the man walking towards it. He was moving before he could stop himself.

“Mister Kogane!” Shiro called out, hurrying across the street and narrowly avoiding a car on the way. Mister Kogane jumped in surprise, turning around and catching sight of Shiro with wide eyes. “Officer Shirogane, from the other day.”

Kogane seemed to come back to himself, and relaxed into a handshake. “Right, right. I remember you.”

“I just—I wanted to apologize for intruding then,” he said. “And I should mention that… regardless of how you know Lance, any information you have on his whereabouts from that night is greatly appreciated. My attitude was uncalled for, and we left on terrible terms.”

“It’s not a problem,” Kogane said, looking amused by Shiro’s efforts. He hoped something about apologizing might change the man’s attitude, but that didn’t seem to be the case. “You must be… very good friends with Lance.”

“I am, sir, but that isn’t for me to discuss—”

“I’d love to hear more about how you met him, though,” he said, gesturing to the building he was about to enter. “I found him fascinating, and would love to better introduce myself to one of his friends.”

_This is the last guy who saw Lance_ , Shiro told himself, _Just put up with his bullshit for a little longer. Maybe you’ll learn something_.

“All right then,” he sighed, and followed after Mister Kogane into the bank.

He found himself following Mister Kogane up a set of stairs overlooking the floor of the bank, where the tellers stood behind the safety of their walls and made transitions through holes in the glass. He stood for a moment to watch them all before Kogane called his name over to an office at the end of the hall. “Can’t say it’s anything fancy,” he told Shiro as they wandered in. “But I don’t spend as much time here as I’d like. So I don’t need the luxury of the largest office here.”

“How humble of you,” Shiro commented sarcastically, and Kogane merely scoffed at him, leaning against the desk as he watched Shiro’s gaze flit across the room. It _was_ humble, but it was still the office of a multimillionaire.

“Close the door, would you?” he suggested, and Shiro did so. “I find it hard to believe than you and Lance were ever just… _friends_.”

“And why do you say that, sir?”

“Just ‘Keith’ is fine,” he said with a wave of his hand. “And it’s just because you _are_ openly homosexual and Lance seems like the type of man who wouldn’t pass up an opportunity with someone as good-looking as yourself.”

Shiro would have blushed under the attention, had Keith not let the jealousy of his accusation affect the tone of his words. _So much for playing nice_ , he thought to himself.

“At one point we weren’t ‘just friends’, as you put it,” Shiro said, rubbing his thumb over his brow as he turned to face Keith Kogane, with his watchful, judging eyes. “I actually met him at a bar, because the bartender called, complaining that he was being a nuisance. Which—doesn’t that seem like him? 

“If you want to _really_ learn about Lance, though, I’d say ask him yourself,” he added, pointedly, and earned a glare for it.

“You don’t like me, do you?” Keith said, mouth twisting into a sneer.

“No. And I find it surprising because he’s picky about his one-night stands. They usually have better form than this.”

“You little—” A knock sounded on the door, interrupting them from a potential brawl Shiro was entirely ready for. Keith straightened himself, pegging Shiro with the most hateful glare as he said, “Come on.”

The moment the door opened, Keith snapped his fingers at Shiro and pointed to it. “Leave, officer.”

“My pleasure,” Shiro said, mock-bowing to him before gliding past the secretary that came in.

  


  


“Keith—no! No I didn’t I swear—” Lance screeched, whimpering as Keith came for him across the bed. It was the night after Pidge’s “suicide watch”, and the thought Keith would be more upset about the bruises than whatever convinced him that Lance was calling Shiro’s name again. He knew it wasn’t Pidge, because she looked just as surprised as him when Keith grabbed him by the neck for it, and pinned him against the headboard.

“ _Pidge_!” he roared.

“No sir, he didn’t. Not last night or this morning when you left.”

Keith’s fingers dug into the flesh of Lance’s neck, and he wished desperately that he could use both hands to rip Keith’s fingers off his throat. He was gasping for air by the time Keith finally let him go. He panted hard, chest heaving, and fully aware that Keith was tearing open the front of his shirt. But it was like a dream—he could only focus on one thing at a time, and even then, all of his movements were sluggish when he tried to keep his pants on.

“No—please, I didn’t do anything! I swear it,” Lance begged, legs kicking even as his throat burned.

“Strap him down.”

“ _No!_ C’mon—I swear I didn’t say his name—!” Lance cried out as Keith grabbed him by the wrists and held out his wounded hand to Pidge. She cuffed him, and was about to grab onto his ankle, but Keith told her to leave it. 

Keith grabbed him by the hips and dragged him down. He tried to kick out and shove Keith away with his feet, but his coordination was useless. “Say my name,” he ordered, grabbing Lance by the shoulder and pushing him down.

Lance stared at him, and then over to where Pidge was leaving. His attention was brought back by Keith pulling his shirt over his head, ordering, “ _Say it_.”

“K-Keith—”

“ _No_. Like you did our first night.”

Lance’s lips sealed tight, not only because he just _didn’t want to_ , but also because he wasn’t sure he could. Not anymore, anyways. It was a trick he developed and practiced with people he slept with—to see how wet he could get a man or woman just by saying their names as sensually as possible. He loved fucking with Shiro on days the spent together, at a diner or cooking in Lance’s kitchen. They’d be listening to music when Lance would suddenly burst out in the most orgasmic voice possible, “ _Shirooo_ …” and he’d be satisfied just hearing Shiro drop whatever utensils he was holding to curse at Lance and run to the bathroom.

“I can’t,” Lance whimpered, shaking his head. “I can’t—”

Keith put his hand under the hem of Lance’s pants and grabbed him through his underwear. “ _Say it_.”

So Lance tried, multiple times, and felt the name like just another word in his mouth. It twisted and contorted his tongue in heated sparks. Keith dipped down to taste them on Lance’s lips. 

Judging from the way Keith stormed in there, Lance was expecting another reoccurrence of the shower, but… that wasn’t the case. Something shifted the moment Lance started saying Keith’s name, even if it wasn’t in the most convincing form of the charm. And even as he his heels sought for traction on Keith’s hips to hold him off, it wasn’t _rough sex_. It wasn’t _terrible_. It wasn’t like Lance expected considering the impression Keith gave him coming into the room.

Afterwards, Keith pressed his damp forehead to Lance’s naval and stayed there, hands cupping his hips. Lance stared wide-eyed up at the ceiling, his momentary existential crisis fading when Keith finally rolled out from between Lance’s legs. Neither of them said anything as Keith took to laying beside Lance, his nose pressed to Lance’s oblique. It sent goosebumps over Lance’s chest and arms, and he would have continued to shudder if he wasn’t able to convince himself that this was just another one-night stand, and the man holding him by the legs _wasn’t_ Keith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've officially hit my 800k word count in under a year! Woo! I don't think I'm gonna hit a million this year, but maybe next time. I still gotta think of something to do to celebrate it, but until then, here's another chapter :)
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/geewiIIikers) :D


	6. uninvited guest, party for one

Regardless of what Lance convinced himself that night—that Keith _was_ capable of some form of gentleness in those punishments—it didn’t mean that his charming could save him every time. It took another week for the mark on his back to show significant healing improvement, but Keith still poked and prodded at it if ever Lance was on his stomach. It still hurt. The bruises were all thanks to Pidge.

She brought him newspapers on occasion, where he was constantly displayed in a side column courtesy of Hunk’s insistence with his friends at the press. There were plenty of photographs of Lance, and so they recycled them and every now and then there would be a new one Keith clipped out of the paper before giving to Pidge. 

From what Lance could see when Pidge escorted him down for dinner, Keith was in somewhat of a daze. It was almost as if he had been struck by something that threw his concentration off balance. Pidge insisted Lance finish everything on his plate, and that he wouldn’t leave the table until it was all gone. “You need food,” she told him.

“You’re one to talk.”

“Hey, play nice,” Keith grumbled from the other side of the table.

“Oh, would you prefer he starves himself on purpose then?” she argued with him, and earned a glare that would have had Lance shaking in his shoes. Pidge merely huffed, though, and stalked off. 

Lance remained quiet through most of the dinner, and stuffed food into his stomach when he knew it’d just make him nauseous later on. They were on the end of the table closest to the kitchen, where Lance could sometimes see Pidge peer through the kitchen door window at them before scurrying off back to work. Seeing her just reminded him of the black eye she gave him that was now yellow and green.

He wasn’t allowed to take baths—evidently it was a drowning hazard. So after most meals, Keith took him to that elegant suite with the bathroom that was the size of a micro-apartment. The second time, after that first bloody event, Lance fought viciously against Keith until Keith had shouted, irritated and tired with Lance’s bullshit, “Would you _stop it?_ I’m not in the mood to fuck you!”

That seemed to be the case with every shower. Keith seemed to find the entire ordeal of “bathing” to be a tedious, but necessary task like how one might view taking a shit. He’d lather shaving cream over Lance’s cheeks and neck afterwards, standing in front of the mirror. It was there that Lance saw the bruises Pidge gave him, and there that he watched solemnly as Keith took out his elaborate shaving kit and used the blade of the knife to graze tenderly over Lance’s cheeks. He’d rinse the knife off, smudge it over a towel, and continue again with that stoic, emotionless face of his.

There didn’t seem to be anyone else at the estate, aside from gardeners on sunny days, or a maid here and there that would leave almost as quickly as she came—so Lance never saw her, only heard the engine of her car. 

Three weeks after that first night, Keith took Lance out to the back garden and let him roam free. Lance thought it was a joke, especially when Keith just walked back into the house, but… he was quick to remember the brick walls twice his height, the ones lined with rose bushes covered in thorns. He remembered walking through the elegant archways bordering the garden space, and realized—that wasn’t just for the aesthetic. Even if he could climb the brick walls, he’d bleed out from the rose bushes, and break an ankle jumping down the other side.

Pidge did the laundry outside on a line stretching down from the second floor—where the clothes were washed—to the garden. It wasn’t like he had many opportunities to go outside anyways—when it wasn’t raining, Keith let him out, and when it was, well, even _he_ didn’t want to go outside those days. When it thundered, it poured, and the lightning jarred Lance like it tended to do sometimes. When he was a kid, he overcame his fears of thunderstorms, but now his jumps were a precautionary measure. In the case that the loud _crash!_ came from a person rather than the sky, he’d be ready.

In the five years since Keith purchased the estate, Lance was aware of the parties he hosted, and the ones he attended. He’d been to several of Keith’s festivals—okay, well, perhaps only three, but that was truly an accomplishment considering how frequently they occurred, and how many parties Lance had been to altogether. At the time of his next party, Lance’s lodgings temporarily moved to the basement—which he had never seen before. 

Keith held him by the arm the whole way down the stairs, pushing him down to the point where it felt like his balance was perpetually off. It was no wonder the basement stairs were away from the central point of the house—the door was stuck in one of the back hallways intended for the maids and butlers if Keith even hired them. It connected to the kitchen where Pidge had access to the basement coolers, or hired chefs needed to store other supplies.

The basement was comprised of concrete slabs for walls, and tiny, narrow corridors locked in a maze of small, pointless rooms and dark corners. It reminded Lance of cold winter air, and the fact that he couldn’t see beyond his central vicinity where Keith’s flashlight drifted. Every figure in the distance looked like a person until Lance turned and saw that it was just a stack of boxes, or of crates and wire shelving units. They walked down a hall lined by walk-in coolers that seemed to hum as they approached.

It wasn’t until they were past those massive refrigerators that Lance thought to wonder: _I bet there’s a body in there or something_. The thought made him shudder and his instincts—however skewed these past few weeks—made him cling to the arm Keith held him with. The second he realized it and came back to himself, he hugged his good hand to his chest and pulled at the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m sure you weren’t paying attention,” Keith said as they approached an _actual_ door. “But I imagine that if you _do_ manage to break out of the room, you wouldn’t know which direction to turn first. I’ll be keeping the torch.”

“Is this really necessary?” Lance asked, his anxiety seeping in to the waver of his voice. “I’ll stay quiet if you just let me stay in the room upstairs.”

Keith gave him a dull stare as he unlocked the bolts on the door and shoved it open. He nodded his head towards the room. “Get in.”

Lance shook his head, trying to step back—he could tell now that he would be entirely alone down here. He wouldn’t have light to keep him company. At least he had that much in the room upstairs, but now… “I can’t. Let me have the torch, please.”

Keith rolled his eyes and yanked Lance’s arm into the room, knowing he couldn’t fight with that hand. Lance dug his feet into the ground and shoved his other hand against the door frame, until Keith tackled him by the waist and hoisted him off the ground. He shrieked, crying, “ _No!_ Let me have the flashlight! Don’t lock me in here!”

“Lighten up,” Keith huffed. “It’s not the end of the world. I’ll be back in eight hours. Get some sleep.”

With that, he shoved Lance into the room as far as he could with as much strength as he could so he had time to slam the door and bolt it with those three locks. Lance screamed for him to “ _WAIT! I need—! Stop! Keith come back! Come back, please!_ ” to no avail. 

Lance’s brain frantically tried to cover up his panic with thoughts of _You’re fine. Everything is fine. Just… sit down and pretend your eyes are closed even when they’re open_. 

Slowly, shakily, he searched for the cot he swore he saw when he was thrust into the room. His arms flung around blindly for it, and eventually he sank down onto it, leg bouncing nervously as he slapped his hands over his eyes and counted his breaths up to a hundred. At a hundred, he counted down, and up again, and in intervals his whispery voice turned high-pitched and fast, trying to slow his breaths back to the average beat ideal for counting numbers. _He wasn’t in a small dark room. He wasn’t in a small dark room. He wasn’t sat in a cot in the basement of some psychopath’s estate in a soundproof room made of concrete and shadows where monsters festered through the cracks_ —

The numbers slurred into sobs that constricted his chest. He hated the dark. He hated being _alone_ in the dark. He wished Shiro was there. He wished Hunk was there. He wanted _someone_ there to hold him and reassure him that he wasn’t going through this on his own. It was just a _stupid_ room. It was nothing more than four walls—he was used to four walls. This could… this could be fine. This was… something he could get through.

  


  


He did _not_ get through it.

The first thing he did was find the exit again, and sit against it rocking back to distract himself. He counted the way the door hinge poked at the bruises on his back, and did so to keep his breathing on track and as stable for as long as possible. Though, his breathing went haywire at some point and his throat constricted the motion until eventually, the aching in his head turned to a dizzy, light feeling that sent him tipping to the ground.

After he passed out and woke again, he was able to convince himself that it was just night, and that if he closed his eyes, he might be able to sleep. So, he slept for as long as he could, but it only lasted for a few hours before he woke to the sensation of the branding iron searing into his back, as if to stamp his organs into the carpet. 

He gasped awake, panting, and sweating through the fabric of his shirt and pants. It felt like every bit of the fabric was clinging to him as he tried to sit up, clutching at his chest and wincing as he put pressure on his wounded fingers.

Of course he couldn’t tell the time, but only three hours had passed, and he stayed awake for as long as he could until the claustrophobia sent him into a traumatic daze of screaming and kicking at the walls as if to push them _as far away_ from himself as possible. Every time he screamed, it reminded him of how alone he was down here, like how he would scream and not be heard by Keith or Pidge. 

So naturally, Lance screamed ruthlessly, endlessly, and used Shiro’s name to convey it.

  


  


“Hunk—you _need_ to get me into the Kogane estate,” Shiro demanded over the phone. 

“I was just about to leave with my date—he’s hosting a party tonight,” Hunk confessed. “But I mean—I _think_ I can weasel in a plus-two.”

“ _Yes_. That’s perfect, Hunk, thank you,” he breathed out. “I just—I need to look around. See if I can find anything for Lance.”

“Since when were you above the law?” Hunk jested. “You want me to pick you up, or do you want to meet at my house?”

He agreed to drive to Hunk’s place. Since he lived in downtown, it’d be a hassle for Hunk to have his drive go through the city just to pick Shiro up, so he met Hunk and his date in the foyer of the Garrett Estate. It hadn’t really occurred to Shiro that he was going to a multimillionaire’s estate until he saw Hunk and his date, and their elegant outfits that rivaled the last party they attended. And somehow, lately, Shiro had taken to wearing dark colors that weren’t appropriate for parties. 

Hunk approached him with arms wide. “Shiro! My friend! Today isn’t a day to be sad—c’mon, we’ve got to get you something more suitable.” His guilt for already having delayed Hunk’s arrival to the party only tripled.

“Oh, no, this is fine,” Shiro insisted. “Really. I don’t want to stand out at the party.” He wasn’t trying to be modest, but Hunk took it as that as he started to drag Shiro towards the stairs next to the foyer. 

“We’ll be right back, Shay! Promise!” Hunk called out.

“Take your time! I’ll just be off to the library while you two figure out Shiro’s outfit,” she said, waving to them on her way back into the house. Shiro watched after her painfully before being dragged out of view and down the hall to the suite where Hunk’s clothes were kept.

Thankfully, the first outfit was a success, but before they could leave, Hunk stood Shiro in front of the mirror and fixed his hair back. “It looks like you just rolled out of bed and came here.”

“I may or may not have,” he confessed, dropping his eyes to the floor. “Thank you for lending me your clothes.”

Hunk’s hands hesitated before he picked up a bottle of gel. A strand of hair fell over Shiro’s straight, squarish forehead. He huffed air up at it, but it refused to move until Hunk gathered it up and combed it back. “Lance would have done the same. I know it’s hard. I miss him too.”

“You make it sound like he’s dead.”

“I mean…” As soon as Hunk started, Shiro’s eyes left the ground and locked with Hunk’s through the mirror. He turned to see the way Hunk visibly swallowed and shrugged. “I’m not saying I’m not hoping! I seriously hope he’s still alive, but… don’t you think they would have found him by now? And regardless of what you say, Kogane’s a _victim_ here. Even if he hasn’t been admitting to the fact that he slept with Lance… everyone’s pretty much viewing him like he has. And if they aren’t thinking that, then they’re thinking about the Holt family, and that _stupid_ fucking conspiracy that he killed them!”

“And perhaps he did,” Shiro hissed at him. “And _maybe_ Kogane had something to do with it.”

Hunk dropped his hands, looking far too disappointed in Shiro for Shiro to stand staring at him. He turned back to the mirror and aggressively rolled up the cuffs of the shirt. “Is _that_ why you’re coming to the party?” Hunk asked quietly. “To find Lance?”

When Shiro didn’t respond, Hunk groaned and muttered, “I can’t believe I’m encouraging this. You’ve been depressed for _weeks_ since Iverson took you off the case!”

“It’s been _two weeks_ ,” Shiro remarked. Seeing Keith at the bank had been the start of it. After that, when it became clear that Lance really _was_ missing—considering his absence at work, and his rent coming up with a nervous landlord—Iverson took him off the investigation since that technically wasn’t his forte. Until then, Shiro was seen as just “running off of suspicions” and “invested because Lance was a friend,” which meant he couldn’t touch a file on the matter without Iverson breathing down his neck, telling him to let it go.

“And if that isn’t enough, Kogane already hates me so I’m not supposed to be at the party,” Shiro said. “If I am, he’ll be stepping on my heels all night and I won’t get anything done. So _please_ , try to cover for me? We’ll just say I’m a cousin or something who’s never been to one of these events.”

“Ah, yes, because I have a _Japanese relative_. That’s _totally plausible_ ,” Hunk remarked, gesturing to the fact that he clearly wasn’t even white, and that Shiro wasn’t exactly discrete considering his ethnicity either.

“Come on. Please stay reasonable here,” Shiro sighed. “I’m tired and I just want to find Lance. I think my hunch this time is better founded than the others.”

Hunk didn't say anything, just returned to fixing Shiro’s tie before clapping him on the back, gesturing towards the door. “I don’t understand _any_ of your hunches. But whatever. We need to get going—we’re already past fashionably late,” he said, and Shiro scoffed, his smile returning as he followed Hunk down the stairs to meet up with Shay again. They found her in the sitting room, where the bulk of the books were.

“Shiro, Hunk—you both look wonderful,” she said, rising from the chair.

“I should be the one saying that,” Shiro mused aloud, “considering what I came in here wearing. Thank you for lending me a… proper outfit.”

“Anything for a friend,” he replied, slapping Shiro _hard_ on the back before he reached a hand out to Shay. “Now we can go. I’m sure the driver just _loves_ how long he’s waited for us.”

In the car it donned on Shiro who, exactly, Shay was. She had the iconic straight-nosed structure that mimicked greek sculptures in museums. Her profile portrayed her heavy, rounded lips and calm, green eyes. They squinted whenever she smiled wide, and he recognized her from a gallery opening he attended with Hunk just last week. He knew Hunk only took him out to distract him from everything happening with Lance, and so he wasn’t totally with the program that night Hunk introduced her to him.

Shay was the daughter of a wealthy donor in the city who happened to share the same tastes as Hunk when it came to art. She was the subject in several pieces commissioned and sold at art auctions and was revered for the fact that she appeared like a sculpture model in the flesh. Her brunette hair curled over her ears in waves, and was pinned back with the elaborate gem-studded barrettes that were a testament to her future inheritance. 

On top of that, Shiro remembered being told that she went to a private academy for the magical arts.

It took a little over fifteen minutes to drive to the Kogane Estate, where they were confronted at the gate by a guard who marked off the invitations and counted off extra guests. They played off Shiro as a distant cousin named Ralph, and despite the weird look the guard gave him, he managed to slide in unquestioned. He leaned forward to bump his fist against Hunk’s arm and said, “Thanks for covering for me.”

He received a muttered, “Yeah, no problem. Not like I’m participating in a _crime_ or anything.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Shay told him. “It’s exciting! I’d love to help, Shiro.”

“This isn’t a game,” Shiro sighed. “And besides, you should enjoy the party like you’re meant to. Not lingering around where you’re not supposed to go.”

“Well, who else is going to be your right-hand man?” she asked. “Since Hunk’s such a wuss.”

“Goodness, I feel attacked,” Hunk whined, clutching at his chest.

“Yes, well—then that means your seat at the table will be empty. People will wonder where you are,” Shiro reminded her. “ _You’re_ the one with a name card, not me.”

She pouted as the car came to drop them off at the front door. The three of them stepped out, and instantly Shiro took the route that followed the gardens lining the sides of the house. He waved to Hunk and Shay, who still looked sat to not be a part of Shiro’s shenanigans. 

He straightened the front of his jacket and huffed out a long sigh. As he approached the massive iron gate attached to the brick walls, he considered his chances of being spotted by Kogane. He should have brought a cap or something, but instead he kept his eyes down no matter how much he wanted to search the premises for that dreadful man who was interested in Lance.

Even if everything was cleared up and Kogane wasn’t at the bottom of this, Shiro vowed never to let Lance set foot in another one of Keith’s parties. 

The music was already strumming down the garden, and even though he’d already visited here, he couldn’t help but be amazed at the scenery. The estate happened to be on the edge of an ocean view, where they could see and feel the ocean waves kicking up a misted breeze. That night was scattered with clouds, which prompted all the lanterns to be lit, and the house to illuminate through the windows a soft, orange hue.

Just as he started up the stairs to the back door, Shiro stuttered at the sensation striking his head again—this time _far_ more clear and brutal than ever before. 

It shook the inside of his chest, and kicked his heart into gear. He tried his best to walk normally, when all he wanted to do was run a mile in three minutes if it meant Lance would be safe on the other end. He chased the feeling of it, and the severity of the voice thrumming in his skull. He tracked it to the dining room, where one of the party workers was giving a tour for a couple. He asked if Shiro needed help finding anything, and he just shook his head—a lot of estates hired out for parties, so he didn’t expect any of the workers to know where Lance was, if he _was_ here at all.

Lance’s voice grew steadily less prominent as he entered a sitting room, and then followed a tour heading to an office that covered two floors with walls lined endlessly with books. The arched, two-story windows displayed the sunset outside, where the party guests were gathering, and where the tour guide gestured, saying, “This office belonged to the late Samuel Holt before Mister Kogane, and prior to him, his father, Gregory Holt, who was the original owner. The estate took nearly five years to complete—”

Shiro left the room and looked back the way he came, and backtracked through the sitting room, down the dining room table, and to the kitchen where he startled about a dozen helpers working on the meal. Shiro jumped in surprise, blurting out, “Sorry! Just looking for the restroom!”

Even above the racket in the kitchen, Shiro realized that Lance must have been near there. He was sweating under the exertion of Lance pressing ruthlessly into his mind as he frantically climbed the stairs to the second floor while the foyer was empty. 

_Shiro. Shiro! SHIRO!_

He burst into the room at the far end of the white marble hallway, and ran in. He staggered to a halt in front of unused furniture—a staged nursery, so it seemed. Perhaps at one point it _was_ in use—for the Holts—but now, it remained empty and dull, dusted only by the maids who came in. Shiro panted, pulling at his tie as he paced the room, still hearing the shrill panic of Lance in his head. 

He lowered himself down so he could rest his elbows to his knees, and rub his hands over his face. _Lance, where are you?_ he begged, aware that the pressure in his chest seemed only to increase the closer he was to the floor. Just as he realized Lance was most certainly below him, below the kitchen, the door to the nursery opened.

Shiro paused, slowly rising as he heard a pair of footsteps enter, and nudge the door closed. “Well. This just won’t do,” the man said as he scraped something off of one of the dressers.

Shiro bolted up off the ground. All he had to do was hear that man’s voice—one he’d heard before, and one the precinct had been after for nearly five years. He reached onto the back of his belt, and came up empty— _curse_ Hunk for making him leave behind his weapons.

The man spun the trinket in his hand, one that consisted of a hefty globe and a pointed, intricate design circling the top. “I thought I recognized you,” he said, advancing on Shiro. “Seems to be my lucky day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a bit rough, just an FYI. I try to follow up the harsh details with lighter events, though, so that should help??
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/) :)


	7. roses for you

Socializing seemed to exhaust all of Keith’s efforts to retain some semblance of normalcy that he clung to. But still, Lance suspected he craved it in hopes that pretending he was normal would one day actually become a true feat. That was why he kept Lance around, wasn’t it? That was why Lance was here, right?

He couldn’t convince himself of anything aside from that. He suspected the sex was on the list somewhere—though he _knew_ Keith slept with other men and women, but he never kept them around like he did Lance. In that sick pocket of Lance’s mind, he knew that this fact was something he appreciated, in his own way. It meant that no one else was being hurt—though, in the worst times, he often wished that someone else _was_ in his place. It meant that Keith treasured Lance above the others, which… wasn’t comforting.

It wasn’t comforting _at all_.

Especially considering the state Lance was in when Keith abruptly broke into that dark room with a flashlight.

Lance leapt up in the cot, already exhausted from having spent all those hours in a constant state of destructive panic. Keith threw the flashlight aside, and it was a miracle that it didn’t break as it spiraled across the concrete and into the wall. The beam of light silhouetted Keith as he came for Lance and grabbed him by the front of the shirt. 

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say my name.”

“K-Keith—”

“ _Again!_ ”

Lance scrambled to catch Keith’s hands as he shoved his fingers against Lance’s lips, as if to feel the sparks on his tongue, and how prominent they were when Lance said his name. He crushed himself to Lance, rolling his hips against Lance’s legs as his filthy, alcohol-tainted lips breathed over Lance’s. 

Keith bit into his lip and pulled, his words muffled by it, “ _Convince me_.”

Lance looked over at the doorway, still frantically trying to rip Keith’s hands off his shirt. The collar of it choked him as he tried to fall off the cot, only to be pinned down on the concrete by Keith bearing down over him, knee wedged between Lance’s thighs. Keith was screaming slurs and curses at Lance, shoving his face into the dusty ground. 

Lance screamed fiercely for Keith to _get the fuck off of him_ and _let him go_. Every second he spent avoiding Keith’s name was another inch of his flesh exposed until Keith stood up, cursing, and ripped off his pants. Lance’s limbs deceived him, and pretended to want to stand when really, they stumbled over one another until he collapsed against the wall as far from Keith as he could. The world was spinning as he clung to the open folds of his shirt. 

When Keith approached him then, he grabbed Lance by the hair and shoved his neck back. He grabbed Lance’s mouth and drove his thumb between his teeth, not seeming to care that Lance tried his damnedest to bite it off. For it, he had his head slammed back into the brick, rattling his already loosely-composed brain, and sending heat pulsing across the back of his head.

“Bite me again and it’ll be a concussion,” Keith hissed at him.

Lance wasn’t one for blowjobs. Sure, he accepted them as they came, but _giving them_ was another story. He found them gross before Keith forced himself down his throat. He couldn’t stand the taste of something as repulsive as someone’s dick, but he once made an exception with Shiro for the sake of trying it out. Of the few he handed out, he always had his hands on their hips to hold them off from fucking his mouth raw. 

Since Lance couldn’t seem to say Keith’s name, it seemed like anything Lance said didn’t matter at all to Keith. So he silenced him by eventually triggering his gag reflex not long into it, which led to Lance keeling over to the side, vomiting bile up. His stomach heaved for minutes after that. Keith shoved him forward, forcing him to the ground as he grappled for traction before Keith tore his pants down and rutted into him until he was able to breathe again. 

He tipped onto the concrete afterwards, panting and half-lying in the small, drying splotch of bile on the concrete. He barely came back to himself before realizing Keith had picked up the flashlight and was leaving. 

Rational thought long gone, Lance cried out, “ _Wait!_ Don’t leave me here—!” but Keith was already leaving and bolting the door again.

  


  


When Pidge finally came for him later that early morning, she had a stick and prodded Lance with it. “Come on. Keith’s passed out and severely hungover. Figured you’d want to wash up on your own today.”

That seemed to be the first good news in a while, regardless of what hungover Keith entailed. 

Lance forced himself up to his feet, jaw and ass _sore_ , and tears dried on his cheeks. Pidge helped him minimally, but seemed disinterested with him that day considering… how he looked. He followed her through the maze, the stream of light ahead of them. He walked disjointedly up the stairs, and followed her to the second floor where she claimed to have new clothes ready for him in the restroom he usually pissed in. 

“I’ll just be sitting here while ya finish your business,” she told him as she perched atop the closed toilet lid and waited for him to take care of things.

She patted him on the backs of his calves with the stick, and turned slightly away as he started to undress. He kicked the soiled clothes away, as if hoping the torrent of memories of Keith raping him would also be buried beneath them. He stepped into the shower and turned the dial. A hot stream of water poured over him, and while he leapt at the intensity of it, there were worse things than the burning sting of his flesh, he now realized. 

He let his skin turn red under the water, and turned towards it to rinse his mouth out. He spat mouthful after mouthful of water down the drain, and scrubbed at his teeth with his fingers. He grabbed a bar of soap and bit into it, squeezing his eyes shut to stop himself from crying. He pulled the soap against his teeth so the shavings of it seared into his tongue.

He spat the suds out and cleaned the crustiness off the insides of his thighs. He took a second to pee. He swished water around in his mouth again. He scrubbed his hands over his cheeks and eyes and moaned quietly to himself. _You can do this. You can do this_.

Maybe if he said it enough times, he could charm himself into believing it.

When he got out of the shower, dried off, and dressed, Pidge said, “Let’s go eat.”

He was in the middle of buttoning the loose-fitted shirt when she said this. Even the _thought_ of food wasn’t appealing to him. “I’m not hungry,” he confessed. “I’m not sure if I could eat anything without throwing it up.”

Pidge hesitated at the door, grip tight on the stick, as if she was debating whether or not she could beat hunger into him. “Fine,” she said at last. “Let’s go.”

She took him by the arm and led the way back to his usual room—where she left him unchained with the door locked. He first went to the window, where he found it sealed by nails hammered into the frame. He sat by it and picked at it, thinking about how Pidge probably came in here herself and nailed the window to the frame like that. 

Considering all the clouds from the day before, it was overcast again, with a slight drizzle that occupied Lance for the time he spent sitting at the windowsill. He brought his knees up to his chest and dragged his bandaged hand down the glass, following the motion of water droplets picking up speed as gravity pulled them down. He could practically _feel_ the bags under his eyes beginning to weigh his cheeks down the more he stared, bleary-eyed, at the rain. 

He fell asleep with his head against the lukewarm windowpane, trying to sap the cold from it in hopes of cooling his eyes that were still hot and swollen from tears.

Keith avoided him for as long as he could, Lance assumed. He had Pidge bring up meals—at least, he only knew this from what Pidge said. “He gets like this after parties,” she explained. “It’s also the reason why he takes to starving charmers when they first come—so that he doesn’t have to see them.”

“How many has he had?” Lance asked sullenly as he picked at the food. He could feel the hunger pains gnawing at the lining of his stomach, though, so he decided a nibble wouldn’t hurt. 

Pidge watched him vaguely before pretending to read again as she said, “I don’t know. I stopped counting after six. Most of them were prostitutes he picked up off street corners. About a year ago he started looking for them at parties. They’re kind of… _charmer traps_.” She scoffed at the term, and flipped the page.

“So… are you interested in what Keith’s doing? And that’s why you stick around?” he asked her, and flinched at the glare she gave him. “I’ll just… stop asking questions.”

“That’s a good idea,” she told him.

“Though, I would like a book,” he said.

“Paper cuts, and we don’t want any paper-cuts,” she sang. “We’ve had charmers attempt to bleed out via paper-cuts before. They were never very successful, but you can never be too wary.”

“I have nothing to do! I’d like to read something,” he confessed. He was never one for books, but… given how much time he spent without company, it seemed like an excellent way to pass the time.

Pidge groaned and chucked her book at him. He was so surprised that the spine of it managed to smack him directly on the forehead, and before he could even recover from the hit, Pidge was gone.

So he had a book. Perfect.

It wasn’t anything remarkably interesting, and the style was dry and hard to comprehend, but given the amount of time Lance had to ponder it, he settled on switching sitting arrangements every fifteen pages. He rotated to the chair, and then the couch, on top of the desk, the floor by the door, and then at last against the bed where he could face the window as he flipped to the hundredth page.

He finished it near the third day of blessed isolation with only Pidge as company on occasion. Contrary to the way she introduced her _true_ self, whatever that actually was, she seemed to just enjoy reading in the same company as Lance, and insulting him whenever he asked a question. She never reverted back to the timid way she first spoke to him, which convinced him that such a girl just didn’t exist. Katie Holt was Pidge now—there was no reverting back. Though, the real question on his mind was this: Was Katie Holt _always_ Pidge? Or did her association with Keith prompt it?

He quietly stood from where he was sitting at the window sill and bestowed the book back to her. “Thank you for lending me your book,” he said. “It was… boring.”

“Yeah. Took you long enough to get through it,” she snorted. “What? Never went to _school?_ ”

“I did! I even went to university,” he insisted, crossing his arms stubbornly. “Just… not for English. English was never my specialty.”

“Clearly,” she laughed, and he frowned at her. “Oh, come on. It’s hilarious! I’m sure you would have been _very_ convincing doing your speeches, though.”

“Incredibly. The teachers always wondered how I did it,” he laughed, walking away and taking his seat again. “It’s funny that none of them suspected I was a charmer. Usually it’s obvious.”

“ _Usually_. But you aren’t a usual case,” she told him. He didn’t answer, just tucked his hands around his ankles and stared at the wall. The comment was left hanging in the air where they could both see it, but not acknowledge it directly. Eventually, the tension of it scared Pidge away, muttering, “I’ll get you a new book,” along the way.

She took so long that Lance managed to doze off against the window again—that tended to be the ideal napping place, it seemed, because he found himself sleeping there more often than not. He couldn’t stand to spend another minute on the bed if he didn’t have to. 

Eventually, though, he heard the door opened. He pressed his forehead to the glass and glanced sparingly to where Pidge’s footsteps were coming near. He stared down at the rose bushes lining the front stairs when she rested the book at his feet. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Keith said, startling Lance into bashing his head on the frame of the window, knees drawn tight to his chest as he stared at the bizarre form of Keith standing there, retracting from where he bent down to lay the book on the sill. 

Lance stared at him, quickly taking in the image of his freshly shaven face, and the faint purple spots under his eyes. They stared at one another for a minute before Keith straightened and clasped his hands behind his back, clearing his throat.

“I am not going to apologize to you,” he said finally, staring Lance down and prompting a weak, “Oh,” from Lance’s mouth.

Keith’s eyes narrowed at him. “‘Oh?’ Is that all you can manage?”

The memory of Keith prying his mouth open was so vivid, Lance could _taste_ the metal on Keith’s fingers from the door handle and the flashlight. 

“Unless it’s in response to your apology, I have nothing to say,” Lance finally said.

“And I suppose you feel _entitled_ to it? Because you are so damn used to people groveling at your feet? Desperate to make you happy? Is that why you’re expecting an apology?” he hissed at Lance, and his sneer was too much for Lance to look at. He turned his eyes out the window, only to flinch when Keith grabbed him by the jaw, saying, “ _Look at me_ when I’m _talking to you_.”

“It’s more than just what you fucking did to me!” Lance shrieked, the words blurting out of his mouth faster than he could process them. The severity, and volume of his voice led to the words cracking, and his breath coming faster as Keith dropped his hand. He saw Keith’s eyes widen a fraction. “I spent. Eight _hours_ in blind _torture_. It felt like I was drowning during every _second of it_. And as if the—the _claustrophobia_ or my fear of the dark wasn’t any _worse_ , _you_ come in—and—and you—” 

Lance’s shoulders were heaving by the end of it, his words fading in to the clenched fist he held up, and shook it around furiously with a scream. He grabbed the book and threw it fiercely at Keith, breaking apart into hollow sobs. 

He expected to be grabbed again—the second he opened his fucking mouth he knew it’d happen—but it never came. Keith didn’t even touch him. And the second Lance looked over at him and caught his eye, Keith fled like a bat out of Hell and slammed the door behind him. After a few seconds, he heard the door lock—as if Keith had suddenly forgotten that detail.

Lance was shocked out of his crying by the sight of it. He’d never seen anybody move so fast in his entire _life_. It was like watching a spider dart out from its hiding place to grab a fly from its web, or a fly escape out from a descending hand. 

It took several minutes before Lance calmed down enough to actually clear the tears from his cheeks and hunt down the book that ricocheted off of Keith’s shoulder. He snatched it up with a huff, his anger returning to him in another spurt of screaming. He chucked the book at the wall _over_ and _over_ until he exhausted his arm and realized he couldn’t use his other hand for book-throwing. 

He definitely _hadn’t_ expected Keith to come back in, or as quickly as he had left. 

The door was suddenly open, and the second Lance turned towards it, Keith was on top of him. Lance staggered back and tripped onto the window sill, shoulders bunched up to his ears as Keith stared back at him aggressively. 

Eventually, Keith closed his eyes and took a deep breath before saying, “ _Lance_ ,” in the most annoyed voice he could have possibly summoned, “Due to the fact that you have given me _literally_ no choice… I would like to—um—I would like to—”

He looked like he was choking as he cleared his throat and gestured vaguely, saying, “I would like to _offer_ my—my sin-sincerestapologies.”

“Your _what?_ ” Lance blurted out, and realized the hand Keith was gesturing with was full of roses hastily hacked over to remove the thorns. 

“My sincerest apologies,” Keith reiterated. “They’re yours.” 

Belatedly, he all but thrust the bouquet into Lance’s hands. Afterwards, it was like the spell grasping Keith by the throat completely vanished. He gave a shudder, as if expelling some demon from his very soul, and turned away without another word. 

After Keith left, Lance still found himself staring at the door, and then to the roses. They were still sopping wet from the rain, and only then did he realize what happened. He _completely_ threw a tantrum, the sort by which is mother would come running across the neighborhood to save him from. 

Before he could stop himself, he burst out laughing, and doubled over the windowsill until he lost his balance and fell onto the ground.

  


  


Lance was suspicious of the way Keith seemed to refuse to look at him. They didn’t see each other all that often—it was like Keith was afraid to listen to anything that came out of Lance’s mouth, as if Lance was capable of forcing Keith to do things at any given moment. He wasn’t entirely sure what prompted _that_ particular tantrum to trigger Keith, but… he found it amusing nonetheless. 

He vowed to try again, and next time—demand that Keith release him. He was still working out the logistics of his next verbal attack.

That night before Pidge came in to strap him to the bed, he curled up into a ball under the sheets and slept as best he could. In the morning, after Keith came in mutely to unlock three of the restraints before he left the estate, Lance laid there with his eyes closed, tense and fully aware of Keith standing there, he said, “Go fuck yourself.”

The words were ice on his tongue, and caused Keith to pause over his ankle. Lance never used his charming for something so vulgar, and suddenly it assaulted him like a mouthful of ice. He didn’t like it one bit, and perhaps it was the way his face screwed up that made Keith burst out laughing.

He opened his eyes and glared down at where Keith turned away, throwing his head back laughing. Keith clapped his hands, and was halfway out of the room when he spoke again.

“Sh-Shut up!” Lance blurted out, embarrassed as he curled away from the door, throwing the sheets over his head.

“That was a nice try. Maybe try something a little more doable next time,” Keith told him. Lance groaned in annoyance, and listened to Keith’s laughter dissolve behind the closed and locked door.

His laughter still followed Lance, though, and it came back with the thought of how Keith probably viewed Lance. He remembered everything Pidge said about Keith’s past victims being prostitutes, and he curled into the thought and how he craved the fantasy that he wasn’t like them. Just because he enjoyed sex didn’t mean he took every available opportunity to _have it_. Just because he normally _enjoyed sex_ didn’t mean he appreciated anything Keith was doing to him. He loathed every second of it and it pained him to think that something he depended on for happy, thrilling experiences was suddenly being tainted. There was nothing beautiful or exciting about the way Keith forced arousal on him. 

Keith was probably laughing at him. That’s how he viewed Lance, wasn’t it? Wasn’t Lance just another _slut to him?_ He imagined Keith was thinking to himself, “If Lance likes sex so much, he shouldn’t be complaining.”

Tears blurred over his eyelashes as he squeezed his eyes shut. His wounded hand remained limp in the restraint. He covered his mouth with his good hand to muffle any noise that happened to escape him.

Lance stayed under the covers through the day and remained there even when Pidge came in to check on him. She lifted the blanket only once—to check and make sure that it really _was_ him—and seemed put off by whatever look he gave her, so she didn’t check on him again. He heard her pick up the book Keith gave him several days ago, and she put it back, saying, “You’ve ruined a perfectly fine book. The spine’s completely broke.”

“ _Sor-ry_ ,” he groaned sarcastically, turning onto his other side, only to realize that he was restricted by his other hand. He gave up halfway through and just ended up lying on his stomach for a while, face-first into the pillow until he couldn’t breathe.

He stayed like that for the remainder of the day, sleeping in intervals, waking up at the strike of something invisible hitting his head. He was quick to expel the nightmares, and the images of Keith, Keith, and Keith turning him over, slamming him against a wall, chasing him at every dream of escape. On occasion he dreamt of Shiro, both those for few and far in between the nightmares. They were the sorts of blips in his subconscious that were just near enough to warrant a minute or two of exposure.

Pidge stayed in the room and read on the windowsill cushions until Keith returned late that night. She hopped up at the sound of the car, and hurried out of the room. Lance peered over the blankets at her, but she was already gone. His stomach started to growl as soon as she left.

 _Fuck, I could have asked for some food_ , he moaned internally, yet another negative thought that day. He couldn’t seem to catch a break with his subconscious, even as it talked back to him, making one long laundry list of all the things that could go wrong, and did go wrong, and would eventually _go wrong_.

When he went to sleep hungry, it was difficult to coax himself to relax, especially when every exhale felt like it was hollowing out his organs and making it difficult for his lungs to restore air. It often felt like he was suffocating, though he knew he wasn’t, and somehow he managed to edge along the cusp of unconsciousness. But that happened to be at the exact moment the door opened again.

“Get up,” Keith ordered.

Lance remained under the blankets, figuring he took on the worst of Keith—he could handle whatever Keith threw at him.

Keith threw off the blankets and unhooked the one restraint. “Pidge tells me you haven’t moved all day,” Keith said. “Up. You’re having dinner with me, and then we’re going to go for a walk.”

Lance rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. His eyes then drifted to Keith, who waited expectantly for him to move. “I’m not hungry,” he lied, quietly, unconvincingly.

Keith reached out to pull him off the bed, but he jerked away, not realizing how close he was to the opposite side of the bed. He tumbled off, shrieking, foot caught in the blanket. Unfortunately, he broke his fall with his bad hand, and gasped in agony, fingers bent all wrong against the carpet. “ _Fuck!_ Shit—Holy _shit—_ ”

“What is it?” Keith said, hurrying around the bed to tear the blanket out from under Lance’s tangled leg. Lance’s hand was shaking as he pulled it out from underneath his back and screwed his eyes shut when Keith reached for it. 

He hastily tore the bandages off—which, probably wasn’t the _best_ idea, because it only caused Lance to cry out when he jostled his swollen, damaged fingers. “J-Just let Pidge do it,” Lance insisted.

“Contrary to— _popular_ belief,” Keith bit out, plucking the last bit of tape off before pealing away the cushioning, “I make an _excellent_ nurse. There was a _Before_ Pidge, you know. I didn’t usually have assistants.”

His two fingers were red and purple, and swollen like balloons by the time Keith straightened them out against the floor. “I’m going to fetch the first aid kit and have Pidge grab some ice,” he told Lance, and was gone before the tears subsided from the corners of Lance’s eyes. 

The pulsing of his fingers led to his entire hand shaking, and he held it down with a squeak of pain, looking up at the ceiling and trying to count his breaths down to a normal speed. It took a minute or two before Keith came back in, and Lance realized that while he spent that whole time trying to calm down, the door was completely open. He could have run out—though, how far he would have gotten is still up for debate—but his sudden disappointment led to a quiet, mute treatment where Keith splinted his fingers together. He stared at the open door, wishing he would have thought to run the second Keith left the room. 

“I’m going to immobilize your fingers. It’ll be difficult to move them, so don’t try to,” Keith told him, wrapping a strip of foam over the tips of his fingers before he began wrapping the tape around them so tightly, it suffocated his swollen joints into submission.

Lance brushed his good hand over his cheeks and held his cool fingers against his eyelids. When he opened his eyes again, Keith was looking between him and his hand. “You look like you could use a drink,” Keith said. “What would you like?”

“Um…” 

Pidge came in then, bag of ice jostling in her hand. Lance shut his mouth and reached out for the bag before settling it over the heat throbbing in his fingers. “I… I could go for a cocktail?” he confessed meekly, sniffling as Pidge snorted.

“And I suppose _I’m_ the one who’s going to be making this,” she said, and groaned at the smirk on Keith’s face. “I may _look_ older than I am, but I’m still barely sixteen.”

“And you make an excellent bartender,” Keith jested. 

“You _did_ make a good sidecar that night,” Lance confessed, sharing a look with Keith as Pidge stomped out of the room to make a drink for Lance.

Keith held the door open for Lance and followed him to the stairs. Standing up suddenly stunned him with a wave of dizziness, so Keith held his elbow to steady him down the stairs. Lance refused to let the ugly jitters crawl up his spine, and avoided them by talking. 

“So—you mentioned a _Before_ Pidge era.”

“I did.”

“So… that must have been before you… moved here, right?”

“That would be correct. When I lived in Korea. It wasn’t for the same intentions as now—my father encouraged it,” he explained. “He was a homophobic piece of shit, but that’s just how it was. He also didn’t appreciate my absolute disinterest in the subject. He would bring women over when I was as young as… I think it was fifteen. Afterwards he would do whatever it was he did with them. I suspected he would eventually kill them, but until then I often treated their wounds when he told me to.”

“That sounds _awful_.”

“It wasn’t bad. I didn’t mind it.”

Lance sighed and rolled his eyes. His head hurt, and it took until now to realize it. “Of course you wouldn’t think it was terrible. You’re a sex-addict and your father encouraged it.”

“I’m indifferent to it.” Before Lance could read into it, Keith continued, quickly, as if to distract from that fact, “Besides, my mother had her own faults as well. It was a weird household—you wouldn’t appreciate it,” he decided as they reached the first floor and started for the dining room. “I didn’t necessarily move here to avoid my parents, though. They had it planned for me and everything was arranged by the time I turned twenty. And I wasn’t initially going to live here, but the property ended up empty and so I moved in.

“And I’m sure you’re wondering where Pidge fits into all of this, considering you’re probably wondering how I managed to kill her parents before buying the estate. The estate went up for sale about a week before I even arrived and heard about it, and so I purchased it on the first day of my arrival. I didn’t even look at it or tour it. The first day I saw it was the day I moved in.”

Keith pulled back the chair distractedly, waiting for Lance to sit before he pushed it in. He walked around the end of the table as he continued the story, sitting down across from Lance as he said, “The police spent a lot of time in the basement clearing out those storage rooms and searching for evidence. The family was found in the coolers down there, as you probably know from the papers, and the family’s safe—where they kept a significant amount of their wealth and inheritance—was basically indestructible. They couldn’t break in, and that was put on the list of defects in the property. And I figured I could hire someone to break the lock, but the exterior lock was completely indisposed. Someone cemented it and the police couldn’t figure out how or why.

“But that first night, I was sleeping as best I could—insomnia is a pain—and… I heard the door to my room open. I never had any helpers in the house, so imagine my surprise when Pidge attempted to slit my throat in the dead of the night. I ended up restraining her and nearly killed her myself before I realized who she was,” he said, and at that moment Pidge walked in with two trays of food and nudged it onto the corner of the table.

Keith fell quiet as she laid a plate in front of him and took off the cap, setting it aside, before coming over to serve Lance up. He could hardly even look up at her as he thanked her, because he was starting to come to the same conclusion Keith did.

When Pidge left, Keith punctuated Lance’s thought. “So it turns out… Pidge murdered her family. The safe locked from the inside as well, and so she locked herself inside and waited for the police to clear out. And then she waited for me to move in and attempted to off me so she could have the estate to herself.”

Lance didn’t stay anything for a moment, because he could still remember the day Pidge came barging in because Lance was screaming Shiro’s name. Something about this revelation was disappointingly expected, and it pained him to think that someone Pidge’s age was even capable of such horrible crimes.

“I assumed that time you ‘attempted suicide’ was fake,” Keith said. “Is that why you aren’t surprised?”

He nodded mutely.

“Every now and then she gets into those rages. Usually I can handle it—she shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” Keith said. “We have an agreement. That if she plans to stay here and live with me, then she does as she’s told until she’s eighteen. Then she’s able to do as she pleases as long as it doesn’t interfere or hinder my work. As long as she meets those terms, I will endorse her travels, and arrange for her new name to be legally made up. She will no longer be a Holt.”

“Are you sure you should be encouraging that kind of behavior?” Lance asked.

“And suddenly you’re a mother who cares for a child?” Keith retorted, turning his eyes down as he picked at his plate and reached for the gravy boat between them. “Thought so. Neither am I—I’m just trying to do what’s best for her. Repressing it will only make the urges worse, and her rages to be more frequent than they are. Turning her in means a lifetime in juvenile prison, and then _adult_ prison where she’ll either be torn apart, raped, or become the one on the other end of things. Which do you prefer?”

Lance closed his mouth, realizing that he let his jaw drop. He turned away from Keith then, the food in his mouth turning to dust on his tongue. Everything tasted wrong when he thought about the horrific things Keith said, or the equally terrible things Keith did to _him_. He nearly choked when his muscles vividly remembered convulsing when Keith rammed into the back of his throat—

“You look like you’re about to be sick,” Keith commented. “Did I say too much?”

Lance brought a hand up to his mouth, and choked a little on his food. He spat it out on the plate and turned to stand up. The ice bag slid off his hand as he scrambled out of his chair before Keith could even think to stand up. He darted for the kitchen door, and grabbed hold of the first pot he could find. Pidge, who was standing at the door listening to them, was nearly hit in the face with the door when Lance burst in. 

He spat up remnants of food and tried to hold back his stomach from shuddering up the length of his spine, but it took over anyways until he emptied out everything he just ate. His shivers persisted, and caused him to jump violently when someone put their hand on his back, just above where the branding mark was. 

“Here’s some water,” Pidge told him, holding out a glass to him. Saliva gathered on his lips, so he spat it out before taking the water glass. It felt like his entire mouth was coated in saliva, and so he gargled the water in his mouth and cleared it all out.

He was handed a martini glass filled with hot pink liquid. “A cocktail. It’s sweet so it’ll probably… get rid of the taste,” she told him, gesturing to her mouth.

He thanked her and sipped at it, still shaking as he leaned over the counter and pressed his forehead to the marble. He heard the familiar sound of a match striking the rough edge of the box, and a moment later he heard someone exhale a breath of smoke over his head before tapping him on the shoulder.

“Here,” Keith said, and when Lance lifted his head, he pressed the edge of a cigarette to his limp lips. “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive to that sort of stuff.”

He cleared his throat before he managed to croak out, “I’m not. It wasn’t because of what you were telling me.”

“Then what was it?” he asked, and Lance could only pinch the cigarette between his fingers, and lift his martini glass off the counter. He walked past Keith back to the dining room, and found his seat again where he could ice his hand, have a smoke, and hope that there was some strong liquor in the cocktail Pidge made for him.

Keith seemed put off by Lance’s attitude, because he didn’t talk for the rest of the meal until he asked if Lance was done. It took a moment for Lance to recognize that they were back to whatever ‘routine’ they had, which meant that he knew _exactly_ what came after this. And while he knew Keith wasn’t looking to fuck him against the shower wall again, he honestly couldn’t imagine spending another second with Keith naked.

“I don’t think I should get my bandage wet,” he said at last, exhaling the smoke from his second cigarette. “And I don’t want to reapply it because it’s already irritated enough as it is.”

His casual tone must have been convincing enough, because Keith didn’t miss a beat as he said, “Fine then. Pidge—will you please escort Lance back to his room?”

“Aye-aye, sir,” she said sarcastically, marching dramatically through the kitchen door. Lance smirked at her, and laughed as she bowed to him. “After you, _monsieur_.”

“You can speak French to me _anytime_ ,” he flirted obnoxiously, fake-fanning himself as he scooted out of his chair and put his cigarette out on his plate. 

Pidge had the audacity to blush as she laughed, “I actually know a bit of French. I have a _horrible_ accent, though.”

“It’s quite terrible,” Keith agreed in a mutter, scowling up at them as they left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be posting every day for a little while now, because I have a lot of chapters stocked up from yesterday (I literally wrote all day yesterday no joke. I probably cranked out 25k+). 
> 
> I'm so glad you guys are liking this fic :O It's a bit new to me so it's crazy that it's turning out the way I hoped it would.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/) :D


	8. pushing boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance's ass is grass and Keith's gonna mow it.

It was the weekend again, and Lance worried that the news of another party would spring on him and send him straight back into the basement. It became a reoccurring feeling—not _just_ for Keith to host a party, but to go to one himself. Pidge described him as “no longer in the partying-spirit” due to his intolerance for them. 

“The only reason he goes to parties is to find charmers,” she explained. “His last party was a precaution, in case things didn’t work out with you. And also protection—we have to keep our appearances up.”

“And how do you know that?” he asked from where he continued to sit on the swing-chair outside, a pillow hugged to his chest as he watched Pidge sigh.

“I _know_ , because I know _Keith_. He hates crowds. He hates having to _deal_ with drunken idiots,” she explained, hands slapping to her sides. “And I mean, he was kind of worried that you wouldn’t get the hang of your charming until you went and forced him to apologize. Which, by the way, that was impressive. I’ve never seen him apologize to anyone for _anything_.”

“Right, because he feels entitled to always be in the right,” he commented bitterly. He looked away for a moment, lips pursing as he asked, “So… you don’t think he’ll go out again?” It was like he was asking what the weather forecast was, and he might as well have. 

The last time Keith went _out_ to a party, he returned drunk and demanding Pidge hand over her set of keys to Lance’s room because he lost his and couldn’t find it (it was in his coat pocket, he just didn’t look hard enough). She refused, and stood guardian outside of Lance’s room because Keith came back with an axe from the backyard garden shed. He remembered cowering under the blankets as Pidge shrieked, “ _Whoa! I’m not a fucking log of wood, you dipshit! Put that down! Hand it over right now! Now go to your room and don’t come back here!_ ”

They both shuddered in remembrance of it. It happened on Wednesday night—it wasn’t even a huge party; it was just a small gathering of people at one of his “work friends” estates. It was Friday now.

“You seem like a nice guy,” Pidge said finally. “But I’m not taking another axe for you. I hate dealing with Keith when he’s drunk.”

“You hate dealing with _anyone_ , drunk or not,” he told her, and she shrugged. “And thanks. Your friendship means _wonders_ to me now.”

“Okay, first off: we aren’t friends. And second—”

“That sounds like something a friend would say,” he accused.

She glared at him, and turned on her heels as if to leave him where he was sitting on the back deck watching her debate whether or not to leave him there, unsupervised. He tipped his knees to the side, watching as she cursed under her breath and marched back over to him. “We are _barely_ acquaintances,” she hissed at him.

“Okay. Barely acquaintances it is,” he agreed. “Which means you have to take an axe for me.”

“Do not.”

“Yes you do.”

“I will _literally_ slap you—”

“No you won’t,” Keith’s voice piped up as he wandered through the open door to glare at Pidge. “Also, Lance, stop patronizing her. You’re just encouraging her to _actually_ slap you.”

The rain pattered over the leaves, and dripped off the rooftop and onto the edge of the porch where the water collected in splotches on the wood. Lance lifted his knees back up as Keith stepped up to him and sat beside him on the swing-chair. “And I’m not apologizing for nearly taking an axe to your door,” Keith huffed finally, scowling down at the papers now on his lap.

“How kind of you,” Lance said sarcastically, turning away and staring down the length of the porch to where the rose bushes collected on the brick walls. He heard Keith chuckle beside him as he scoured over the papers and shifted through them rapidly to find the correct page. He clicked the pen open against his shoulder and started scratching through lines and writing in the margin. It took a moment for Lance to realize he was watching, and then he abruptly turned away and picked up Pidge’s book to distract himself.

Lance was convinced that Keith was, like he said, indifferent about a lot of things. He just happened to be excellent at faking his ruthless exterior when it came to Lance, on the occasions that he _did_ happen to come home beyond pissed about such-and-such. It was almost as if—no matter how much Lance tried to convince himself otherwise—fucking his anger out was a habit of Keith’s he just couldn’t break. 

Because, for the most part, Lance observed Keith sitting around working or reading, or listening to radio shows. Just yesterday Lance was given free reign of the house—perhaps as a subtle, muted apology for coming to his door with an axe. Pidge was charged with escorting Lance everywhere, though, and while the front door was bolted shut by its two locks, the windows were still an option, and Lance would sit facing one of them as Pidge sat beside him reading, saying, “Don’t even think about it. I still have the stick.”

“I know,” he’d grumble, and turn away from the temptation.

Honestly, he wondered how fast he could run. It seemed like he was in a constant state of either soreness, or dizziness from sitting around without activity, and infrequent meals. It wasn’t that they didn’t offer him food—he just found himself losing his appetite more and more. He could probably make it down the driveway before his adrenaline cut out and led him to crumble. 

The instant Lance thought of any occasion where Keith forced his dick into Lance’s mouth, everything about the situation he was presently in just seemed to sour. His contentment turned bitter, and he couldn’t sit still. He supposed his appetite had something to do with it—putting anything in his mouth made him wretch, and even brushing his teeth made him cringe. The necessity of cleaning the disgusting taste in his mouth, though, was usually what helped him power through those sorts of tasks.

Lance bristled on that swinging chair and snapped his book closed. “What is it,” Keith asked.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said, and got up, holding onto the chain as his vision momentarily scattered in front of him. Once his head cleared, he continued off the porch and into the grass.

“I’ll come with you,” Keith said, and he heard the creak of the chains as Keith rose.

“No, no, it’s fine—” Lance insisted, turning around and facing Keith, who stood at the top of the stairs. 

He recalled every other time he told Keith _No_ , and how before every session Keith would hiss at him, “Tell me not to,” and Lance would _try_. He would try _so hard_ to force Keith to stop just by screaming it until his tongue went numb and flat in his mouth. 

So Keith was expecting him to be convincing again. Lance hugged his arms over his chest and turned away, resigning to the fact that he couldn’t convince Keith to do _anything_. And thinking that just led to the destructive thoughts of how he’d never get out of this house, at least not alive, or after doing everything Keith wanted of him. 

And so he heard Keith go down the steps and approach him calmly. Lance turned away and started to walk, but Keith stopped him, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. “I wish you could hear what Pidge and I do,” he said. “You’ve made tremendous improvement. I don’t—you shouldn’t stop trying to resist.”

“Isn’t that the _point?_ Shouldn’t that be what you’re waiting for?” Lance argued, and before Keith could continue, he added, “Any _normal_ kidnapper wouldn’t be asking for rebellion.”

Keith laughed at that, dropping his hand. “Yes, well… considering things, and also who you are, that would make me a very idiotic kidnapper. _Definitely_ a missed opportunity.”

Lance wished he could say what was on his mind, but sometimes it was difficult to gauge just how content Keith was in the moment. It was difficult to understand whether or not Keith was willing to sacrifice the calmness. 

“Say it,” Keith said, walking ahead of Lance and starting the trek through the gardens. 

He hesitated for a moment longer, until after they passed the fountain. “I can’t,” he confessed quietly, voice straining. “I can’t talk about it with you.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Keith said, unfazed, “ _when_ you get the hang of it, I won’t have sex with you anymore. Not just because I don’t want to, but because I won’t be able to.”

It was almost as if he read Lance’s mind. The realization caused Lance’s pace to slow, and he held a hand beneath his chin as he considered what that meant. Why hadn’t he considered it before? Was it because he didn’t think it was possible, and therefore never tricked himself into believing the outcomes of its success? Logically, Keith _wouldn’t_ be able to have sex with Lance, because all Lance would have to do is decline him, and Keith would walk away. 

The thought of it held the same sort of miraculous dream he would get as a kid. Like how he pictured himself as a police officer, and how incredible that would have been. Like how he pictured himself in a fancy house surrounded by beautiful things. 

“Then…” he said, “wouldn’t I just be able to tell you to let me go, and you’d do it?”

“Here’s the thing about charming a psychopath,” Keith told him, turning towards him a fraction as he studied the blossoms on a shrub. “I am completely capable of resisting you. You are a temptation that psychopaths can’t ignore, because you give us a snippet of what normal emotions are like. And while they’re inconvenient and illogical and hardly appealing to me… it’s something we crave. It’s easiest to manipulate us into doing something you want when we also have the same ideals. But when you ask to leave, I simply can’t bend to that desire of yours because it isn’t beneficial to me. You leaving, means Pidge and I lose a fraction of what it feels like to have compassion.

“And as sickening as that emotion is to me, it’s like a drug,” he explains. “And _that_ is the main reason why psychopaths are attracted to charmers above all else. Does that make sense?”

Lance shut his mouth and pursed his lips into a tight line, frowning at Keith as he studied Lance across the distance of a rosebush. Lance wouldn’t consider the severity of it until later that night—the idea that Keith and Pidge depended on him for a dose of a healthy emotional balance—because at the time, Lance saw Keith then as someone attempting unsuccessfully to flirt with him.

“You… seem to know a lot about charming,” Lance commented instead of calling Keith out.

Keith shrugged and said, “I’ve learned a lot over the years. My father—outside of everything he did in his own time—was a researcher. He studied the neurological components that attribute to charming. His sector focused on… developing drugs to inhibit charming altogether. I think it will be a precursor to Korea’s nation-wide ban on emotional magic.”

“Seriously?” Lance blurted out, eyes wide. “How is that possible? Why would they do that?”

Keith sighed again and rolled his eyes, “You can’t be serious, Lance. You’re a charmer and you’re completely oblivious to it, aren’t you? Charming is how incredibly powerful people convince and verbally fight their way to the top. It’s unrealistic that anyone without charming abilities is able to get to the position most men find themselves at. And as soon as it enters the legal system, the courtrooms— _anything_ that regards the lives of average people—it becomes a weapon. 

“I imagine it will happen eventually, and certain occupations will have a requirement for prescriptions that inhibit charming,” he finished. 

“But then—what about—” Lance started, unable to complete his statement.

“My father believed that there might be a cure,” he said. “For conditions that show lack of empathy, and other emotional imbalances. But the easiest and closest attempt would be pairing psychopaths and charmers up. Because after a certain period of time, the charmer’s own emotional footprint becomes nearly imbedded in their companion’s. If you think about it… I would describe it as… myself being a blank piece of paper, and you hold all the colors, the markers, the pencils.”

Lance was startled by the visual, and how well it resonated with him. He hadn’t thought it would be possible to understand Keith’s viewpoint, but now… he could see it. He could see it in the way Keith suddenly blushed, realizing how romantic his words were. 

Keith looked away pointedly, scowl returning as Lance blurted out, “That’s so sweet! I never even imagined…!”

“No, I can’t imagine any reason why you _would_ think that way,” Keith argued bluntly. “But I’m afraid that’s only a theory. Because my mother was a charmer, and she was never able to cure my father so… don’t get any bright ideas.”

“I’m the markers! You’re the paper!”

“ _Lance!_ ”

He stopped then, but refused to let his ridiculous smile down even when Keith glared at him. 

  


  


That night when Keith came in and unlocked his ankle restraints, Lance was already jittery and talkative and couldn’t seem to stop the words from spilling out of his mouth as Keith pulled off his pants.

“I’ve been thinking about it and I think that it’s entirely possible that I could push more emotions onto you. And I wouldn’t even ask for permission considering you just took off my pants without asking I used to have meltdowns and force my siblings to cry—I’m awfully good at it. I can’t— _ah_ —I can’t imagine th-that y-you’d— _God—_ ”

“You wouldn’t— _dare_ ,” Keith hissed at him, “Pushing emotions doesn’t—work like that.”

He laid hot, wet kisses across Lance’s exposed neck as he winced and squirmed underneath Keith. He squeezed his eyes shut and, even though it’d be torture, he prompted every horrible thought to enter his head as Keith rutted into him for a few moments before stuttering to a halt the second Lance broke down sobbing at the constricted sensation in his chest from when he was in that dark room. If he closed his eyes he could convince himself he was back in there, face shoved into his own vomit—

Keith slapped his hand over Lance’s mouth and stared up at the ceiling. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, but even through his own panicked breaths, he could hear the way Keith’s voice hitched a little. He could feel Keith’s arousal soften as he pulled out and slammed his fist onto the bed next to Lance’s head. He flinched a little, staring wide-eyed as Keith pressed his forehead to Lance’s bare chest and huffed furiously against his skin.

And then Keith looked up at him. It wasn’t entirely dark out, so Lance could see the red tinge to his eyes as he spat at Lance, “You _fuck_. I can’t believe you just did that.”

Lance was so elated that he started laughing, even when he was on the brink of tears. They translated into sobs as Keith sat up and rubbed his hands over his cheeks and forcefully yanked his shirt on. “ _Fuck_ ,” he seethed. “I can’t say I’ve ever had my emotions pushed that hard.”

“Y-Yeah, but it worked, didn’t it?” Lance said, cheeks straining as he smiled.

“Fuck you,” he snapped, furious as he shoved himself off the bed and pulled his pants back on. 

Lance may not have been capable of charming _No_ through words, but after that day, Lance was so thrilled by this win that he did it time and time again. Keith came back in the morning and before he could even pull his hard-on out of his pants, Lance forced himself back into the mindset of that small dark room again and shoved it at Keith like he was mentally throwing bowling balls at him. Keith left the room, red-eyed and seething again, and unable to fuck Lance now that his dick was soft.

Sure, it exhausted Lance to dwell on those thoughts repeatedly, but so far it was working. It worked for an entire two nights before Keith came in with a shampoo bottle. He was livid, and Lance’s chest suddenly seized up with panic. 

“Whoa—what are you doing—” Lance shrieked, feet scrambling on the bed as he tried to pull himself away. Keith grabbed him by the ankle, eyes red as Lance started screaming and bawling, shoving every wretched, pained emotion onto him. Keith dragged him across the bed and climbed on, not even bothering to take off his clothes.

“Just because I can’t fucking get an erection _because of you—_ ” Keith hissed out, “—doesn’t mean I can’t fuck you.”

The glass shampoo bottle was slick with lube, but it still fucking _hurt._ It was impossible for Lance _not_ to scream and wish he had some control of his hands to push Keith away as he forced Lance’s knees apart, fingers bruising against his thighs. Lance’s voice was raspy at the end of it, his breaths wheezing through his dry throat as he sobbed, head pressed back against the pillows as Keith chucked the bottle across the room and forced himself off the bed. The bottle didn’t crack—it just clattered against the desk and rolled off onto the floor, tracking wet slime with it.

Even in his pain and exhaustion, Lance continued to channel his emotions onto Keith, even after Keith left the room. He spent the entire night trying to track Keith’s mental footprint, and located it on the third floor, in that suite where Keith often showered with him. 

He started lightly, leaving only hints of expressions he hoped would translate into some semblance of regret. He left behind faint traces of his own regret, from events that happened ages ago that he still remembered. And he thought he was doing a killer job at it—he’d never been so careful with pushing emotions before—but then he felt Keith’s mental footprint move.

He tensed on the bed, realizing Keith was coming down the stairs. Tensing only caused the pain in his ass to worsen, and he winced, muttering, “ _Fuck_ … Shit, shit, shit,” under his breath. 

When Keith came storming into his room, he was biting out curses and grabbed Lance by the neck as he seethed, “ _Don’t_ fucking mess with my emotions like that—”

“ _Ow!_ Ow, ow, ow, okay—I think you might have ripped something,” Lance cried out, wincing as Keith just stared at him before letting go of his neck and realizing what he meant. 

Keith turned on the lights and looked for a split second before turning away with a curse. “Is it bad?” Lance asked weakly. Keith didn’t answer as he turned back and undid the restraints on Lance’s ankles. Lance let his head fall back with a groan, turning his knees to the side as Keith continued to undo his wrist restraints. 

“ _Fuck_. I shouldn’t have done that,” Keith muttered to himself, and glared up at Lance. “And _no_ , that’s not your little mind-experiment working. Get up.”

Lance sat up and rolled off the bed, and didn’t look back at the small spot of blood on the sheets as Keith grabbed a fresh set of clothes for him and led the way out into the hallway. “I’m going to have Pidge start a bath for you while I get you pain medication,” he explained as they started up the stairs.

“Oh, so _now_ I warrant _pain medication?_ ” Lance whined. “You’re such an ass.”

“ _I’m_ not the one picking around in another peoples’ heads.”

“ _I’m_ not the one shoving _shampoo tubes_ up peoples’ _anuses_.” At the top of the stairs, they glared each other down until Keith relented with a string of curses and shoved Lance towards the suite.

Lance supposed the fissure was the start of a long period of “good days”, which was true aside from a few details here and there. Keith played nurse, because apparently he was familiar with anal fissures and thought he knew everything about them—which… may or may not have been true, but Lance could do without people openly looking at his ass every goddamn day. 

Pidge came into the bathroom to finish off the bath, and was laughing the entire time. She cackled even as Keith came back into the bathroom with a scowl and a bottle of medicine. She hollered all the way out into the hallway where Lance could still hear here from where he sat, sulking, in the bathtub.

“I always thought I had a tough asshole until now,” Lance confessed to Keith.

“Don’t fucking talk. I’m tired and I don’t want to hear it.”

“Do you want me to start crying again?”

“ _Fuck_ no. Lance, just shut up.”

But of course, Lance didn’t shut up, so Keith left and came back with a cloth to tie over his mouth as he sat in the tub, letting the pain medication kick in. 

After the bath, which was heavily watched over by Keith, Lance stepped out of the tub and dried himself off before slipping on a pair of new underwear and trousers. “The blood soaked into the mattress, so Pidge is fixing that,” Keith told him. “Fissures usually take a few weeks to heal… so…”

Lance didn’t say it, but he was thrilled. He didn’t even care that his ass was throbbing. It meant that there wouldn’t be any sex until he was healed again. It meant that he spent days in a different guest bedroom—albeit, still strapped to the bed—accepting food trays from a still-amused Pidge, and smiling boyishly at a clearly-pissed Keith. Unable to get a hard-on in fear of Lance breaking him down into tears, Keith would stalk away and leave Lance’s pretty little mouth clean and smiling.

So Lance counted what he assumed was his fifth week or so. Three times every day Pidge sat him in the bathtub connected to that new guest room. He spent those lukewarm baths reading and eating, and wishing there could be bubbles that he could blow off his hands at Pidge, who scowled at him from where she sat perched on the toilet seat.

He took to sitting out on the porch in the rain, and nibbled on fruit Pidge gave him. He was eating more than before now that each bath seemed to accompany a meal. Lance spent a significant amount of time now thinking about books, and reading, and occupying his mental space with something other than what could possibly happen next in real life. 

At one point, after finishing a book, he passed it off to Pidge. As she wandered off into the house, Lance snuck off his chair and hurried after her as quietly as possible. He waited until she was out of the foyer before chasing after her, and where she disappeared down an adjacent hallway.

He flattened himself to the wall, and peered around to where her shadow retreated into a partially open doorway—the door itself extraordinarily tall in comparison to those on the second floor, or the first. It was surprising, even to him, that he hadn’t explored the estate yet, so he found himself approaching the set of doors that Pidge disappeared into. As he peered in, his shock translated into an elated gasp.

“Books!” he exclaimed, and slapped his hand over his mouth as Pidge jumped and spun to him, and he realized Keith was sitting at the desk closest to the floor-length windows. 

Keith gave a start, and relaxed when he realized it was just Lance. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded, and Lance ducked behind the door a bit, about to leave. “Wait— _ugh_ , I mean, it’s _fine_. I’m just wondering what brought you over here.”

“Is this—like, a _library_?” Lance asked, peering around the open door.

“It’s my _office_ ,” he corrected. “But _yes_ , there’s books in here.”

“I thought you guys might have had, like, one of those dinky little shelving units hidden in a really remote place. Or in a safe or something,” he confessed, and Pidge snorted as she reached up onto the tips of her toes and reshelved Lance’s book.

“Your incompetence never fails to amuse me,” she told him. He stepped forward as if to flick her head, but stopped when he realized he was out in the open, and Keith was staring at him.

Keith gestured for him to enter the room, looking just as amused as Pidge was. “I have work to do so be quiet.”

“As if,” Pidge scoffed, and glanced over at Lance as he approached cautiously. “Keith can do his work with his eyes closed. Literally. I swear I’ve seen him sleeping and writing perfect lines at the same time.”

“Pidge, please,” Keith huffed. “I pour all my concentration into this.”

“Sounds like magic to me,” Lance remarked, peering up at all the books.

“It is,” she told him. “He’s an analytical _dick_ who sees the world through numbers instead of colors.”

“Not literally, right?” Lance said, looking over at Keith. Honestly, with magic becoming so common, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Though, that sounded more like a problem than a magical solution to him.

Keith sighed, “ _No_ , not literally. But my father’s research section was filled with people who saw the world differently through magic. It’s difficult to understand the neurological effects of magic without being able to _see_ it.”

“So… you use magic?” Lance asked, eyes slitting. “How?”

“Just with… analytics and logistics,” he explained, rubbing his fingers between his tired eyes. “It’s very abstract to try and explain to someone who doesn’t use _actual_ magic. Pidge just thinks I see the world in numbers.”

“Well… that explains your profession,” he commented, and felt Pidge tap him on the shoulder. He took the book she held out to him, and studied the front page to find the title. “Not exactly my _favorite_ magic. I really like going to Pike’s and seeing all the sparks and flares.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. My favorite café uses magic. They have a window so you can see the chefs work from the front of the house,” he explained. “When I was in university I… tried to get into it but it doesn’t come naturally to me. But I still go there! They make the _best_ omelettes.”

“Pidge makes pretty good omelettes,” he argued.

“No—well, yes, but this café makes them melt in your mouth and they’re so fluffy and _God_. They have a list of toppings and I always get avocado on it and I’ve gotten it so much that they don’t even charge me extra. I go there pretty much every day before work and…” Lance hadn’t thought about his daily routine. He never even considered the fact that it _was_ a routine at all. Going to the café just felt like a necessary task, like getting up in the morning, putting on clothes, brushing his teeth. 

But that routine was gone now.

“Well, _used_ to go there,” he corrected, turning back to the book as he realized that not only was Keith looking at him, but now so was Pidge. “I, um… never mind.”

He hurried out of the office before either of them could say anything. He started to picture his favorite café with those lovely waitresses greeting him and visiting him at the table on the slower mornings. They’d sit and talk to him throughout the course of his breakfast, and how he never really realized how much he missed the freedom of… being able to just _buy himself breakfast_. While he hated getting the number on the bill, he never even hesitated to top it with ten dollar tips, even on the mornings he just ordered a coffee because his hangovers resisted food.

He curled up on the porch swing and picked up the damp, dripping ice bag that he left on the deck. He placed it on his damaged hand and pushed his feet against the ground. The creak of the chains lulled him back to the spirit of reading.

He barely got a page in before the back door opened and he heard Keith clear his throat. Keith leant over the back of the swing, looking at Lance as he said, “What café was this? You said it was by Pike’s Place?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> avocado toast.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/).


	9. end of an era

“Officer Shirogane came by the other week,” she said as her pen hesitated on the order form. She brushed a hand over her cheek, pushing aside her curly hair as she looked at Hunk. As if eye contact was capable of sharing emotion. “I’m real sorry about everything, Mister Garrett. It must be so hard for you—Lance always spoke so kindly about you. He shared a lot of stories about the two of you. He always said that you were an excellent dance partner.”

“I imagine he did,” Hunk said with a strained smile. “But… Shiro came here to talk to you about Lance?”

“He did. Not that I had much to give him at the time,” she explained. “And I still don’t. But… we’ve been keepin’ our eye out for him. As is everyone else. A few officers came in here on account of followin’ up on a few places Shiro’s been to in the past few weeks since Lance went missing.”

“And did they tell you anything? About Shiro or Lance?” he asked, and she shook her head. “Anything at all?”

“No, sorry. They’ve been hush-hush about it,” she said. “Rumors are goin’ around that gangs are involved with all this, but I think that’s malarky. Lance has _never_ associated with those types of people. He and Shiro are good men.”

“That they are.” 

She left with that, and tore the order slip off the pad and hung it for the kitchen. Hunk watched after her with a sigh, and felt a distinctly dreadful sensation settle in the pit of his stomach. He was always a worrier, but it wasn’t too much of a stretch to assume that this was all a cycle. First Lance came to the café, then Shiro, and now he, too, was sitting here in the same place, asking the same questions as the previous man to go missing. 

But this wasn’t Hunk’s profession. He felt lost and confused and there wasn’t much else he could do aside from reliving the times Lance took him to this very same café and shared sundaes with him. 

He was alone at that table for approximately five minutes before another waitress came up—the manager Lance always fawned over on his visits to The Quilted Lion. Her hair was an extraordinary shade of silver-white, which always drew attention to her considering its size and color. He perked up at the sight of her and cried out, “Allura! Nice to see you again!”

She beamed at him and sat herself across the booth from him. “Hey Hunk! Good to see you around. If only the situation wasn’t so dire. How you holding up?”

“Well… I’m here, aren’t I?” he laughed hollowly, and slumped his shoulders. “It feels like I can’t do a thing. I mean, if Shiro couldn’t find Lance…”

“I really wish the best for you. I really do. And I’m thinking that maybe it’s best for you to _not_ do anything, as terrible as that sounds,” she said. “And the only reason I say that is because I feel like… maybe Shiro got a bit too close to the situation? I’d hate for you to get into the same boat as those two.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I _really_ think that—”

“The police can handle this,” she told him sternly. “And I want you to promise me one thing: That you won’t get involved.”

He stared at her for a moment, realizing that… he really had no intention of getting involved. But was that his selfishness speaking? The guilt from this entire situation had him nodding, and agreeing to her terms.

“All right then. Now, I wouldn’t normally say this and I haven’t told the police because it’s just a hunch,” Allura started, reaching into her back pocket, “but yesterday a man came in for a togo order that’s pretty much an _exact_ copy of what Lance usually gets here. Not many people go around ordering omelettes with avocados in them, you know.”

She slid him the receipt, with the handwritten order transferred over in faint grey lettering. He stared at her and then at the paper. “Do you—Do you know the man’s name?”

“Yes, and that’s what worries me. It’s the owner of the bank on the corner two blocks over. Keith Kogane?” she said, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Do you think that means anything?”

“Well… Shiro thought…” Hunk started, setting the receipt down. He stared at it, eyes wide. He wasn’t quite sure what his expression said, or what it looked like, but Allura turned grave. “I think… you should tell the police this. I promise I won’t look into it if you tell them.”

She nodded quickly, and took the receipt back. “Okay. Okay, I will,” she promised. “Thank you, Hunk. I didn’t think it meant anything, but I figured I should ask you anyway. Thank you.”

As Allura hurried off to the telephone in the back, Hunk settled into the booth and turned his attention outside. It was raining again, and the glass was spotted with droplets, creating a kaleidoscope image of the street outside, and the people passing by. _I hope you’re okay, Lance and Shiro_ , Hunk thought as he took a sip of his coffee.

  


  


“Is it good?” Keith asked.

“ _So good_ ,” Lance breathed, toes curling as he shut his eyes and let out a sensual moan.

“Don’t tempt me,” he deadpanned, now scowling at Lance. “And I can’t imagine avocado is _that_ great of a flavor.”

“It’s incredible,” he argued, licking his lips. Keith left early in the morning to pick up a fresh meal from The Quilted Lion, Lance’s favorite café. He had been out in the garden because that entire morning Pidge had the gardeners over, which meant he was confined and tied to the bed with the fabric stuffed in his mouth. About half an hour after they left, Pidge came and untied him and let him roam free for the most part. 

The bizarre thing about it was that he considered the chances of a secret message surviving the Seattle rains. Could he wait until the gardeners came back? And the day before plant something among the weeds? And for a dreadful moment, he wondered whether or not things were _terrible_ as they were. He viciously reminded himself it was only this way because Keith went and tore the lining of his anus, as if that wasn’t painful enough. After that was healed, things… would go back to how they were. Keith’s savage training ritual, struck up once again.

But then the smell of the food hit him before anything else. There was this concept Lance always believed that involved the strength of the memory when confronted with such potent aromas—and that was the smell of omelettes from The Quilted Lion.

He looked around frantically for it, and came practically running to the stairs where Keith was just walking down the steps to where Pidge pointed, in the direction where Lance originally disappeared in the garden. “Whoa, careful,” Keith told him as he sprinted up. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“I don’t care. Is that what I think it is?” he demanded, and moments later they were sitting on the swinging chair as Lance moaned orgasmically at the delicious, milky texture of the yolk combined with the avocado spread in the middle. 

After breathing out, “It’s incredible,” with his mouth half-full of it, he felt Keith’s hand tug on his chin, pulling him around to face Keith. Their noses bumped as Keith pushed his lips against Lance’s, and kissed the taste away from his mouth. Lance momentarily forgot where he was until he realized how disgusting it was to makeout with someone when his mouth was completely full of food. 

“Ew, gross— _no_ ,” Lance whined, grimacing as he pulled away.

“I still don’t know how I feel about the avocado flavor,” Keith confessed, brushing his fingers over the corners of his mouth. “Let’s try again.” 

He was already forcing his lips onto Lance’s again. Lance shoved his hands against Keith’s shoulders. He pushed _hard_ and was only pinned against the armrest of the swing, jaw ensnared in Keith’s hands. The food in his mouth turned to mush and he clamped his teeth shut until they both pulled away for air and Lance hissed out, “ _No_. I don’t want to kiss you when I have food in my mouth. I don’t want to kiss you _period_.” 

He had his eyes so wide that they burned, staring down Keith as he seemed to hesitate, hand gripping the back of the swing so tight his knuckles were white. He expected Keith to disobey, as he always seemed to do, but he only spat out, “ _Fuck_. That was convincing,” and leaned back. 

As Keith rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, Lance stood up and spat the mush over the railing. When he turned back, Keith still had a hand over his mouth, but he was staring at Lance as if he had just conquered the world and offered it all to him. “What?” he demanded.

“ _Lance_ , you just cockblocked me without making me burst into tears like all those other times,” he said. “I should be mad but I’m just—I’m _impressed_. That was really good.”

Lance stood there for a moment, still holding the togo box of food, and shut his mouth because he wasn’t sure what to say on the matter. Instead, he turned away and lowered himself onto the swing, still stiff from having his mouth attacked like that. He knew before that he always seemed to have issues with _mouth things_ , especially when related to sex, but… kissing was never an issue until now because Keith seemed to steer clear of mouth-kisses. 

And he supposed he couldn’t really say “No” when his mouth was full of cock.

“I just…” he started. “I wasn’t—I didn’t _try_ to.”

“That’s _incredible_ , Lance,” he insisted. “Your charming is so _natural_. It’s like—you completely reverse peoples’ perspectives without even trying. I can’t even—I can’t even _imagine_ how incredible you must be talking to _normal people_. They probably just bend to your every whim without a second thought.”

“Oh—No, no,” he said, resisting the urge to blush. Even Shiro never really touched on the subject of charming a whole lot. They didn’t talk about it beyond ridiculous, immature jokes Lance would pull with him. And his Ma raised him to treat it as suggestion rather than force, because he couldn’t even imagine what sort of power he would have as a toddler had his mother not made him feel guilty for throwing tantrums.

“You can’t be so reserved about this—charming is an _incredible_ gift,” Keith told him. “And you are such a genuine individual that you wouldn’t even have to worry about turning into one of those bigoted, corrupted business _assholes_. You could rip them to shreds with your gift—and after you help me, I could help you go on and do _amazing things_ with your charming.”

“I’m sure you rehearsed that _real_ well,” Lance told him, laughing bitterly as he looked away. “I can’t imagine you even _care_ about what other people do. Not when you’re so…”

“So what?” he asked. “So invested in my own endeavors? I have reason to invest in good deeds, if only for my own benefit.”

“And who’s to say I’d ever endorse whatever… it is you want me to do?” Lance demanded, straightening up at the thought. He spent a significant amount of time considering what Keith could possibly want from him in terms of charming and psychopaths.

Keith went quiet at Lance’s question, and turned his eyes to the edge of the porch. Lance looked at him, and saw his jaw tense as he thought. “I can’t talk about it yet,” he said, a note of finality about it that Lance wasn’t supposed to ignore.

“Can’t or _won’t_? I have every right to know about it.”

“Eat your damn omelette. I’m going to work,” he snapped at Lance, effectively shutting him up as he took off for the door. He slammed it, and as the glass rattled in the frame, Lance sat there with a sour taste in his mouth. He covered it up with the delicious taste of his favorite breakfast food.

Lance spent that day in the gardens due to the random spurt of a near-cloudless sky. He laid out on the lawn and remembered, vaguely, the promise he made to himself—to make a message for the gardeners and hide it somewhere in the weeds. But suddenly it felt like every bone in his body weighed approximately twice it’s actually size, and so he let them sink into the grass and hope to be consumed by the topsoil. He pretended all that day that he was a corpse, waiting to be found int his lovely garden lined by roses. Pidge would pluck flowers for him and skin the thorns off of them, and lay them on his chest. He let his breathing slow until he was barely breathing at all, and every heavy inhale and exhale became more profound than the last.

Pidge came over to him and passed him a lit cigarette. He took it as she sat down, legs crossed, and he explained the dilemma—about how she would have to get him roses for his funeral. She used her stick to pat him on the nose, which actually hurt more than he expected it to. “ _Ouch_. Now it feels like my nose is full of _blood_ or something,” he whined, covering it and checking to make sure that she hadn’t, in fact, given him a bloody nose.

“I’ll help you escape,” she told him. “No need for a funeral.”

He laughed and rolled his eyes, but when he looked over at her again, she appeared to be dead seriously. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me. What would you get out of it anyways?”

She shrugged and leant her elbow on her knee, hand cradling her jaw. “I don’t know, honestly. I’d like to think that maybe you could teach me how to drive your car. I don’t know where the keys are, but… if I find them after you escape, I’ll drive over to your place! And then we can hang out together and stuff. I’d like to see more of the city.

“And also… I haven’t been to Pike’s Place since I was probably eight and I don’t remember it all that much,” she confessed. “My parents never really liked going there. Because there’s so many people.”

Lance sat up and stared at her, the shock of it melting away to the warm, thrilling sensation bubbling in his chest. Pidge would help him. Pidge _liked him enough_ to help him escape. He reached out and grasped her hand that was over the stick, and said, “ _Pidge_ , I would do _anything_ for you if you helped me. You could live at my apartment and we could go to Pike’s Place _every goddamn day_.”

Her expression lit up and he’d never seen a cuter smile on a fifteen-year-old before. She had such a straight line of teeth, and her permanent scowl made it hard to consider what she might look like, bubbly and excited. 

“Really? Okay—because I’ve been thinking about this, and—”

So Pidge relayed the plan. They’d have to wait until night, when Keith was as asleep as he could be. There was a bolted door in the kitchen she used to take out the trash, since it was farthest away from the vaulted ceiling in the foyer, where the sound of a door opening might reach Keith’s room. He’d have to be quiet at the start, because even footsteps were audible from three stories up—Lance knew this because he often heard footsteps crunching on the gravel from the second floor.

So after Keith came back from work and surveyed Lance in the tub for his daily bath, he strapped Lance to the bed and asked, “Are you feeling much better? Does it still hurt?” 

Lance sighed into the pillows and said, “I don’t know. I think the baths are helping though.”

He forced himself to look at Keith again. Until now, it seemed like every time he saw Keith, his eyes seemed to focus on something beyond him. He never truly considered to stare into Keith’s eyes with the intention of memorizing every minimal detail of his gently-sloped monolids, and the weight of no sleep tugging underneath his eyelashes. He had a very bleak visage that Lance never considered until he saw just how pale the Seattle rains made Keith’s skin. 

“What is it?” Keith asked, looking alarmed.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just looking at you. I never really looked at you properly, I just realized. Maybe I did that first night when we were dancing, but I was tipsy.”

Keith gave him a peculiar look as he wandered off to the door. Lance stared after him, quickly memorizing the length of Keith’s neatly-trimmed black hair before it disappeared. Unwittingly, and perhaps selfishly, he considered his chances of ever seeing Keith again after this. Would he recognize Keith? Would he see Keith in every Korean man who happened to pass him on the streets? How would he react?

So as Lance waited for Pidge to come by that night, he fantasized about spotting Keith on the street, and Shiro arresting him in the middle of Pike’s Place. It would be an extravagant, Hollywood-esque reveal and Lance, the handsome love-interest, damsel-in-distress, would grovel at Shiro’s feet exclaiming, “My hero!” and Keith would be towed away in the back of one of the police trucks yelling, “You’ll pay for this! I swear it!” There would be a sequel in which Keith would be miraculously released under shit terms, and Lance would forever exist in post-traumatic fear of Keith bursting into his apartment late at night. He’d wake up in sweat-soaked sheets, and Shiro would be there to ask, “What is it? What’s wrong, baby?” 

The film would be a box-office hit. There’d be movie posters of it across the West Coast. It would open under “inspired by true events” and end with a written catalogue of Lance’s life now, out of captivity. Shiro would get a promotion. All of the success of Lance’s missing case would be thrust onto Officer Takashi Shirogane, and no one would even think twice when seeing them on the streets to ask for their autographs. 

Lance laid awake, beaming on the bed at the thought of telling Hunk all of this. His friend would probably call him crazy, but sob anyways because Lance was _back_ and _ready for business_. Hunk wouldn’t care what sort of illusions motivated Lance to _run like he’s never run before_ because it wouldn’t matter. All that would matter would be the fact that Lance was safe.

The door creaked open ever so slightly.

Lance perked up and saw Pidge sneak across the room in the dark, and rush for his hands. “Sorry it took so long,” she whispered as she undid the restraint. “Are you ready? Do you need anything?”

“No. No, I’m fine,” he told her, now reaching his good hand over to unloop the other restraint as she took care of his ankles. His adrenaline was already starting to hum in his chest where his heart fluttered. 

She held her finger to her lips before hurrying to the door. Lance followed swiftly after her, resting a hand on her shoulder as the both of them peered down the hallway, and then hurried to the stairs. They practically drifted over the stairs, hoping to prevent them from creaking if they stayed close to the railing. Pidge looked up at the floors over their heads, past the chandelier, and then over to where Lance waited for her by the dining room.

Once in the kitchen, she said, voice hushed, “Remember—keep your footsteps quiet until you exit the fountain loop.”

“Okay,” he agreed, staring almost dizzily at the door locks as she swiftly undid them and pushed it open. A gust of cool, summer night air reached them, and kicked his heart back into gear. Something washed over him that felt like sorrow when he saw Pidge staring at him. 

Before he could stop himself, he rushed at her, arms around her waist as he picked her up into a hug. She squeaked and giggled, arms going around his neck. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo before setting her back down and clasping his hands on her shoulders. “You can come over to my apartment _anytime_ , all right? I’ll find your landline and call one of these days.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll be listening for it,” she told him with a curt nod. “Now go. _Hurry_.”

He scurried down the stairs and went to where the grass collected on the edge of the gravel driveway. He hadn’t seen the fountain so close up in _weeks_ , and now he felt a sense of haunting from its shadows as it caught in the moonlight. It was still a cloudless sky as he looked back at the pure white estate, with its columns and its windows surrounded by rose bushes and ivy vines.

And then he saw the front door open. He was probably at the end of the loop when he recognized Pidge’s small form waving him off, until he heard, “ _KEITH, LANCE IS TRYING TO ESCAPE!_ ”

 _Shit_.

Lance took off sprinting before he could stop himself. His feet moved automatically, faster than he anticipated. He hadn’t run in _years_ and suddenly it was all he could do to keep himself afloat. Logic came back to him after a few minutes—around the time that Keith actually hit the first floor sprinting—and he ducked off the driveway and into the forest. 

The thing about Seattle forests happened to be the fact that they were constantly slogged in moss and rotten wood. He slid over fallen trees and between slick patches of rotten leaves. The trees became impossible obstacles as he ran haphazardly between them. The floor gave way to a divot that he slid down, panting with the effort to keep himself upright. He barely made it across the basin before he heard his name echoing through the trees in an absolute _roar_.

He scrambled for cover beneath a patch of trees uprooted by a storm. He barely managed to curl up in there before something caught him by the ankle, and yanked so hard that his knee cracked. 

He heard Keith’s heavy, murderous breathing before he could even get out a decent word of resistance—

“ _Wait!_ Please don’t—”

Keith grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and rammed his head back into the dirt. Suddenly Lance’s torso was off the ground, and slammed back into the fallen tree roots. The bits of dried, dead wood carved their initials into Lance’s back and neck. Keith cracked his knuckles against Lance’s cheekbone, and shook it away with a curse. Blood sputtered in Lance’s cheek where his teeth bit into it, eye already pulsing. 

“You fucking—” Keith started, but Lance wasn’t able to stick around to hear the rest of it, because he slammed Lance’s head so hard into the tree that his vision and consciousness flickered out.

  


  


After that, Lance’s vision came back in spurts. He was upside down, tossed over Keith’s shoulder. He was jostled going up the side of the basin. He could hear Keith’s breathing, his chest heaving with the effort of carrying Lance back to the house. He could feel the breeze on him, and how it felt cold on the back of his neck where liquid seemed to condense. 

They were in the house again, clamoring down the steps as Keith bit out, “I can’t—fucking— _believe_ —Don’t go thinking you’re blameless here—Don’t give me that.”

“It’s _fun_.”

“You aren’t allowed near him. Period. I mean it,” he hissed at Pidge, who was walking behind them. Lance could see her feet beyond the throbbing of his head. The light was so inconsistent that it seemed to splash here and there and send his head pounding. “Set the first aid kit there. Now go the _fuck_ to sleep, Pidge. I don’t want to see you down here.”

They were in the basement. They were in the basement, and Keith was pushing him onto a cot. As Keith went to pick up the first aid kit, Lance leant his head back onto the cot with a distressed groan of defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus concludes the good days :P I'm yellin I'm so close to finishing the whole thing you have NO IDEA. I don't REALLY know how it ends yet, either, so I think that's what's stopping me so far.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/)!


	10. safe house

When Lance woke up again, he was in that same dark room, but the severity of it didn’t register until he realized just how he ended up there. He shuddered as he realized that this entire situation was _his_ fault. He tried _so hard_ to blame it on Pidge, but quite honestly, he wasn’t surprised by her actions. It just seemed like something he should have seen coming. Was she being sarcastic when she first suggested it, and had he took her literally? Had he prompted her to do this? Did she really, truly, hate him?

Lance hugged himself and resisted the urge to cry because his head felt like it was pumping blood through his eyes instead of tears. They were hot, massive droplets that collected at the corners of his eyes and soaked the edges of his nose. The pain in his cheek only blossomed with the effort it took not to burst into gross sobs.

His crying sputtered into panicked breaths, sitting up in this condensed, terrifying dark place that Keith pushed him into. Keith’s last words were on repeat in his head, taunting him: “ _Three days here. And when I come back, I don’t fucking care whether or not you’re healed_.”

_Three days._

_Three days._

_Three days._

Suddenly even an hour seemed unbearable. 

At that point, he had no fucking regard for the pain stabbing through his skull. His sobs wracked his entire body, thrusting short gasps through his chest as he let the distress of his situation wholly consume him. His scattered brain made it impossible to track _anyone’s_ metal footprint, let alone push these emotions onto them. He tried so desperately to make Pidge suffer like he was now, so he clung to the first fraction of a print that he could find—it slipped away almost as soon as he grabbed hold of it.

He could tell they were trying to avoid him. Wherever he was in the house, they were always on the other end of it. He couldn’t reach them, not with his mental state severely rattled like it was. His screams became whistles against his raw vocal chords, and he could feel the blood pulsing in his wounded eye like popped vessels.

His throat was so sore by the end of the first day that even the times he momentarily passed out weren’t enough to save it. When he woke up again, sixteen-hours later, his voice was completely shot through and thoroughly devastated. 

He wondered if this was what stray animals felt like being put in cages for the first time. He wondered just how much of an animal he became now that his nails were bloodied from scratching marks on the door. How savage was he to bang his head against the wall in hopes of knocking himself unconscious again, even with his wounded head?

By the twenty-six hour mark, Lance tore the cot to shreds and attempted to make a noose. But he never knew how to make one in the first place, and had no place to hang it up. He wrapped it around his head and tried to suffocate in it, but that just made the claustrophobia worse and he couldn’t follow through. He was already terrified of suffocation—he couldn’t force himself to go through it, not even if it meant escaping this room and whatever punishment Keith had in store for him.

His hunger was momentarily satiated by his inability to concentrate on anything aside from the crushing sensation surrounding him. However, around thirty hours later, his lack of motivation to kill himself, and the sorrow of not being able to, sunk in and made him melancholy. He spent about an hour in calm silence, staring like a cat in the night at some unseen prize. It took this long for him to realize the whole time that he was shivering, the shudders shaking up his spine like someone was constantly throttling him by the back of the neck.

He had a bandage on his head to stop the bleeding where Keith slammed him against the tree trunk. He used the hinges on the door to scrape open the cuts on his back from the tree roots, if only to distract him from everything else. 

Eventually, though, be became so woozy from lack of proper sleep, of a proper meal, and of proper sanity, that he passed out for nearly eight hours straight without moving a muscle. It was the most thoroughly consuming sleep he experienced in his entire stay there, and did wonders to satisfy his panic by the time he woke up again, staring into darkness. It took a moment for him to even realize _why_ , exactly, he woke up.

Someone was fiddling with the locks outside of the door. But it hadn’t been three days, had it? Lance sat up and waited, realizing that there was a stream of light underneath the door that highlighted spots of blood on the ground where he tore open cuts and rubbed them into the ground during one of his tantrums. 

He tried to ask who was there, but his voice was only a whistle of air.

When the door finally opened, a familiar gasp of relief whooshed out with it. “Thank _God_. Lance—” 

The voice was such a refreshing sound that Lance was quick to trick himself into believe it was a hallucination. He had such vivid dreams about Shiro before, so it wasn’t surprising to see him now coming in to break Lance out of the cell. It wasn’t until he was able to feel Shiro’s hands rest on his arms that such a profound sense of comfort demolished every last strand of Lance’s composure.

“Sh-Shiro,” he wheezed out, lunging at him. 

He was vaguely aware of Shiro murmuring soft, gentle comforting words against his shoulder as he held onto Lance so tightly that he felt Shiro’s skin pull against the cuts on his bare back. “Sh… It’s okay—I’m here now, I’m here now,” he promised Lance. 

“I-I’m dreaming—”

“You aren’t. You aren’t,” he said, fingers grazing through his hair and over the bandage. “Can you stand?” he whispered, and Lance pushed off the ground to try out his legs. 

Shiro kept his arms around Lance, cocooning him in innocent human warmth. “I’m here without the team—so we have to be quiet. I’ll protect you,” Shiro said, voice hushed. “It’s dark out, and my car is at the end of the driveway. Can you walk there?”

 _I’ll do anything to get there_ , Lance thought to himself as he nodded, and clung to Shiro’s arm as they exited the humid, misty room Keith locked him in.

Shiro let Lance hold onto the flashlight as they walked around the corner to the stairs. Lance realized then that Pidge and Keith took him on such convoluted routes to distract him from the fact that he was so damn close to the exit right beneath the kitchen where they always entered. It meant that the second they were up the stairs, the door was on the right, and they were walking through it as though no one could possibly stop them.

The light in this darkness was comforting—Lance could tolerate this now after being pitched into the void. The moon created an achromatic palette across the trees and the stone fountain, the ivy on the white columns, and the fact that Shiro was in dark black clothes and a hat to cover his hair. He caught Lance looking at him, studying every sculpted piece of his face hoping that every part of it was reality. 

Shiro looked exhausted. Even tired and distracted, Shiro always managed to keep his face freshly shaven, but now the start of a beard was starting on his jawline, connecting to his sharp sideburns. Tiredness printed itself beneath Shiro’s eyes in purple-blue marks. Lance was crying before they even reached the end of the loop. Shiro hugged him close, muffling his silent sobs against his chest until he could eventually keep moving under the motivation of getting as far away from the Kogane Estate as possible.

Eventually, they were running. Lance’s head throbbed but he couldn’t stop his feet from taking off down the driveway. It suddenly felt like he was a teenager again, experiencing the freedom of sneaking out at night and running off with the neighbor kids to rivers and lakes, going skinny-dipping and drinking their parent’s expensive, unopened liquor. The wind coursed through his hair and sent his heart ablaze as he looked back at where Shiro was running close behind, beaming at him.

They came to the car, and Shiro held onto Lance from behind, twisting him around to face him. “You’re okay. _You’re okay_ ,” Shiro breathed out, smiling. “Everyone thinks you’re dead but—I _knew_ you were here. I _knew it_. I’m so sorry for not making it sooner, I—”

“It’s okay, Shiro,” he insisted, voice disjointed and raspy. “I’m just—I’m so glad you’re here now.” His words turned into squeaky cries as he let his head fall towards Shiro’s chest. 

Shiro opened the passenger door for Lance and nudged him in. He brushed his hands over his cheeks and came back to himself as Shiro claimed the driver’s side in that boxy cabin. He recognized Shiro’s familiar rearview mirror trinkets dangling down. As Shiro started the car, Lance took to staring at him, as if to ensure that none of this would disappear. Not on his watch.

They were quiet as Shiro pulled away from the estate driveway gates and took off towards the city. Lance continued to watch Shiro and how he reached a hand over to grasp onto Lance’s. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere,” he told Lance. “You must be exhausted—why don’t you sleep?”

“I can’t,” he confessed. “I’m worried.”

“Don’t be. There’s a safe house I’m taking you to that’s owned by the precinct. You’ll be there until we get everything sorted out with Kogane and Miss Holt,” he said, giving Lance’s good hand a squeeze. “And I’ll be there. With you.”

Lance relaxed into the idea, though he couldn’t sleep for the life of him. He watched the drive go by through half-lidded eyes. Everyone was asleep by this time, and so the only light around happened to come from their headlights cutting across the road, and around narrow bends. Lance nearly fell asleep to the lull of the tires occasionally hitting bumps of gravel on the asphalt, but ultimately, even his exhaustion seemed to keep him on edge. He wondered how long it would take to let his freedom sink in.

Eventually Shiro slowed down and pulled the car down a gravel path nearly thirty minutes from the Kogane Estate. The road consisted of two narrow gravel slits for the tires, and a middle strip of overgrown grass. Lance’s attention peaked a little, glancing at Shiro as he laughed and said, “A bit remote, but… Keith won’t be able to find you here.”

“A _bit_ ,” Lance laughed, tears pricking his eyes again. He wasn’t at the estate anymore. He wasn’t strapped to a bed anymore. He could live to spend eternity in a secluded cottage with Shiro.

He parked the car out front where the lights in the cabin were already on. It was a cozy little place composed of smooth logs of wood, and a porch with a rocking chair. He expected Shiro to make a joke about Uncle Tom’s Cabin, but he merely opened up Lance’s door for him and said, “Welcome to your new—temporary—home.”

Lance smiled up at him and pushed himself out of the seat. He stepped up to the front porch and studied the deer-bone wind chime hanging from it. “Lovely decorations,” he said sarcastically, and Shiro laughed.

“I’m not the one in charge of that,” he said. “But I’m not opposed to them. There’s a deer head mounted over the fireplace as well.”

“Classy.”

“It’s thee single most elegant decorative piece in this place,” he argued, and Lance let out a breathy laugh, mainly because he wasn’t capable of a real, genuine one. Not with the state of his throat.

He turned to face Shiro, who stood beside him studying the cabin. “I _really_ missed talking to you,” Lance confessed, throat closing up as he said it. He cleared it. “I mean it.”

Shiro turned to him, gentle amber eyes softening as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Lance’s forehead, where the bandage wrapped around damp with sweat. He closed his eyes against it, and breathed out a comforted sigh. “Let’s go inside,” he suggested, and Lance nodded into it, clinging to Shiro’s black coat as he led the way up the stairs to the door. 

His head was still dizzy from everything—the hunger, the pain, and the adrenaline pushing him beyond his limits. “I need water,” Lance told him, voice croaking.

Shiro silently brought him over to the kitchen where he filled a glass of water for Lance. In the light, he could see just how worn Shiro was, and how it appeared as though he hadn’t gotten a haircut in _months_. It peaked out from underneath his cap in dark waves. “How have you been?” Lance asked. 

“Fine,” he said bluntly as Lance gulped down water. “Looking for you, mostly. That was the main task, anyways.”

“Well, you could have at least slept during that time. You look exhausted,” Lance said, reaching a hand up to brush under Shiro’s eyes. Shiro glimpsed over at him, and seemed on edge the more he looked at Lance. “What is it?”

“Just tired. I’ll show you to your room,” he said, gesturing for them to leave as Lance quickly snagged a package of crackers from the counter and tore into it. He nibbled on them as they crossed the cabin, and through the living room where the deer head was mounted.

Lance’s shirt was tattered and torn all across the back, exposing bits and pieces of the cuts he made with the door hinges. He could feel the breeze from the open windows on them, and shuddered at it as he devoured his sixth cracker before Shiro even gestured to the door. “This is where you’ll sleep. I’ll be in the guest room down the hall,” Shiro told him, nodding behind him. 

Lance opened the door and peered down the steps into the basement, where he could see a light on illuminating the wood paneling and concrete floors. The stairs descended to the landing that overlooked the expanse of the basement, but Lance didn’t see this until something shoved him in the back and sent him soaring over the steps.

The glass in his hand shattered against the steps as he fell.

He caught his balance on the railing, but his legs were still weak, and it just took one last kick to send him down the entirity of the stairwell. He slid against the steps, scrambling to stop himself. His half-heeled hand burned as he grabbed for the railing, rolling down onto the concrete with a pained gasp. 

He was about to scream for Shiro, but he looked up and saw across the basement, there was a set of heavily barred cages where Shiro truly was. His mouth was roped over, hands chained back behind him as he rushed to the bars screaming past the ropes. 

Lance stared at Shiro, and glanced behind him up the stairs where an identical copy of his best friend lumbered down the steps. Lance scrambled up as best he could, yelling, “Shiro! What’s going on!” 

He reached the bars and grabbed for Shiro through them. His best friend’s grey eyes were wide, trying to convey every semblance of distress he could before Lance was ripped away from the cage by the legs. He screamed and clawed for purchase on the bars. Through the fabric on Shiro’s mouth, he could barely make out the words, “ _DON’T! KURO—DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE!_ ”

Lance shrieked as Shiro’s carbon copy—Kuro—flipped him around onto his back, shoving his shoulders into the concrete and merely leaning back when Lance reached up to claw at his eyes, dodging his attacks without batting an eye. Lance barely managed to scrape his fingers over Kuro’s nose, and it came away slick and covered in a light skin color—makeup.

“Aw, how precious,” he crooned, smile crinkling the scar he covered up. “So _this_ is Keith’s pretty little charmer he thought he could torment me with.”

“Who the _fuck_ —do you think you _are!_ ” Lance screamed, words faltering as his voice gave out. He kicked his feet against Kuro’s stomach, only to have his knees ripped apart, and pants torn through viciously. “ _Stop!_ No—No, no, please don’t— _please_ ,” Lance begged, tears pricking through his swollen eyelids as Kuro wrenched his wounded hand away, and pinned his good hand with it over Lance’s head. 

“I bet Keith trained you _real_ well—aside from charming, that is,” Kuro taunted, the likeliness between him and Shiro almost haunting. Lance pried his head back to look at Shiro, and assure himself that this wasn’t his best friend. This wasn’t his best friend.

Shiro strained against the bars, hands trapped behind him as he spat curses through the fabric at Kuro. “And you thought being on the police force would tame me,” Kuro sneered at him. Shiro seethed against the ropes, shoulders huffing. “You couldn’t even find Lance, and you expected to find _me_ —please.”

Without warning, he rammed into Lance, yanking Lance’s legs up and burying himself in to the hilt. Lance sobbed out, trying desperately to yank himself away. He couldn’t look at Kuro without seeing Shiro’s face, beyond the stubble, and the tuft of white hair dipping out from the hat. Lance screamed desperately like all the other times with Keith, but nothing seemed to work. He couldn’t focus for a single second to thrust emotions onto Kuro without considering Shiro—Shiro—Shiro—

  


  


Kuro pulled out of Lance, pink liquid oozing as the blood of Lance’s reopened fissure. Lance turned away, gasping, pulling his knees up as Kuro stood and grabbed him by the wrists. He dragged Lance through it, and to the cell beside Shiro’s where his wrists were cuffed and chained to the wall. He threw Lance’s pants in as an after thought, stuffing them through the bars after having locked the door. 

The single light was left on even as Kuro walked up the stairs and crushed bits of glass beneath his boots. Lance waited until he heard the door closed, aware that Shiro was waiting at their shared bars. At that point, he rushed across the cell despite the agony of it, and desperately reached for him, the chains only allowing him to strain against them to tug at the fabric, and pluck it out of Shiro’s mouth.

“ _Lance!_ Lance, I’m so— _so_ sorry,” he blurted out, his tear tracks channeling a stream of water from his eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so sorry this is all my fault I never thought—I never _considered_ that—”

“Shiro,” Lance breathed in disbelief, “I’m so glad to _see you_.”

Shiro paused for a moment, breath gasping as he smiled, eyes squinting and closing as he broke into sobs. “I’m so sorry Lance…” he moaned against the bars, Lance leaned towards him, pressing their foreheads together with his arms sagged to the side, using as much slack as he could on the chains. 

“I think I can get us out of here,” Lance whispered to him after a moment. “I just need food. When does he come to feed you?”

Shiro sniffed and rubbed his cheek off on his shoulder. “I-I don’t—not frequently. About one to two meals a day, if that. Usually it’s just carbs and water, why?”

“I can’t concentrate when I’m hungry,” Lance explained. “I’m really only good at pushing emotions on people, so I’ll try it on him the next time I’m able to.”

Shiro nodded, swallowing hard as they stared at one another in equal shock. Lance sniffed and turned away, reaching for the pants and pulling them on with a wince. “Are you okay? Well— _duh_ , you aren’t, but… it looked like there was blood,” he said.

“Oh—yeah, I got a fissure last week and it’s been healing. Until now,” he confessed with a sigh. “Damn.”

“How did—?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” 

They lapsed into silence. Lance picked at the frayed bandaging on his hand, and before Shiro could ask him about it, he said, “So… is that your identical twin or something?”

Shiro sighed and nodded, leaning heavily against the bars. “Yeah. He came over here before the rest of my family did. I came because I was young and hopeful that I could stop him from causing harm, but… that was a decade ago. I was still finishing school and Kuro dropped off the face of the Earth. I knew he was around, though, because when I started at the precinct, his profile came up on occasion.”

“So he’s the reason why you joined the Seattle precinct in the first place?” Lance asked, eyes wide. “I never knew.”

“Right. Well, I don’t exactly want it to be common knowledge that my brother is a wanted criminal,” he confessed with a hollow laugh that turned into a tired sigh. 

Lance fell silent for as long as it took for him to feel disgusting again. He couldn’t look at Shiro without thinking about Kuro rutting into him like an animal, and the searing pain in his backside doubled. He couldn’t look at Shiro without thinking about what Shiro must think of him. Was his best friend considering how many times Lance was raped over the past several months? He hadn’t considered what Shiro would think of him after everything was said and done. He just assumed they’d… go back to the way things were.

But nothing would be the same as before. Not when Lance couldn’t stop fucking thinking about Keith and everything he did to Lance at the estate.

“You must think I’m disgusting,” Lance whispered, pushing his knees up to his chest. “And stupid. And _fucking_ ridiculous. I can’t believe I let this happen to me. I never should have spent the night with Keith. I wish I didn’t flirt so much—”

“Stop, Lance—”

“—You probably think I’m the sluttiest person alive. Lance McClain! The man who _fucks everything with a heartbeat—_ ”

“I _never_ thought that—”

“Yeah, well what _do_ you think of me?” he snapped, furiously, angry tears pricking his eyes. “That I asked for it? That by _flirting with everyone_ I was _totally_ just asking to get kidnapped, wasn’t I?” 

“You don’t _flirt with everyone_ ,” Shiro hissed at him. “And fuck the people who think you do. They don’t understand you—you are the most genuine human being I’ve ever known. People are naturally attracted to that sort of thing, you know that? So it isn’t your fault that everyone loves you. Society is full of sick fucks, and _that’s_ the reason why you’re a breath of fresh air.”

“Really?” Lance squeaked, voice soft and vulnerable as Shiro nodded at him.

“ _Lance_ , I would _never_ think of you differently just because of how other people treat you,” he insisted. “You don’t deserve _any_ of this. _God_ , I wish I could have stopped this from happening. I was _so close_ to finding you at that party, Lance—I was so fucking close, but Kuro showed up and—”

As Shiro babbled, Lance backtracked to what Shiro was talking about. His eyes went wide, realizing that his first night in the basement was actually as close to freedom as he had gotten during his entire stay at the estate. _Shiro was there_. Suddenly that whole traumatic experience felt infinitely less overwhelmingly lonesome, knowing that at least _someone_ heard him.

The memory of it sent Lance’s wheels spinning. There was another option, but… before he considered it, he figured there was no other choice. He _had_ to convince Kuro to release them. Now…

“ _Fuck_ ,” Lance huffed. “The only person who knows we’re here is Keith. But I don’t know how long I was in the basement—he said he’d come back in three days. What day is it?” he asked, and Shiro stopped suddenly.

“What… are you suggesting?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “I have no clue. Kuro kidnapped me on a Saturday. I stopped counting after a week because I was in and out of consciousness for a while.”

“ _Dammit_. Okay, if I _try_ , I might be able to call out to him and he might check the room sooner and see that I’m gone,” Lance suggested quickly. “And then he’ll assume someone’s taken me, because if I escaped, why would I alert him to it? So we have to hope that he knows who Kuro is and—”

“Lance—we are _not_ asking your captor to help us,” Shiro insisted. “And Kuro _knows_ Keith. I think Keith might have been wanting to use you against Kuro—he’s been plotting to kidnap you since the night he took me. Apparently he’s been killing off all the charmers Keith captures. We can’t ask Keith for help, Lance—he can’t help us here.”

So _this_ was the man Keith wanted Lance’s help getting rid of. It seemed like a terrible coincidence that he happened to be an identical copy of Shiro. He curled his arms around his knees and nudged his chin between them, searching the floor frantically as he wracked his brain for _something_ to help. Lance wasn’t powerful enough to stop Kuro from doing anything and everything he wanted with Lance. It would be infinitely worse, he assumed, than any of the other charmers considering he had an extra push for tearing Lance down to skin and bones—because he happened to be the perfect weapon against Shiro.

He wished desperately for that dark room again over his current situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried REALLY hard to write an explicit scene where Kuro rapes Lance, but I just COULDN'T. I dunno wHY. It all came out hella cheesy and ridiculous and uninteresting.
> 
> I mean, I really tried to keep the whole Kuro thing under wraps because it would have been SO EASY to make it blatantly obvious--especially when Shiro talked to Lance about his family from Japan... So I wanna know who picked it up or at least had a hunch that I'd bring Kuro into this?? I didn't include his name on the list of characters because DUH spoilers omfg. Like... major spoilers. I could not allow that so I didn't put his name up there. I was sorta hoping y'all were gonna think I was gonna bring Lotor into this because I use him for all my antagonists *insert suggestive smirky face here* I'm lookin at you, rich art snob Lotor from _Musing_.
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/)!


	11. chilled

The door opened not long after their dreadful conversation.

Both Shiro and Lance shut their mouths, and even their breaths seem to wind together in the tense silence. Kuro’s footsteps echoed down the stairs, and Lance hoped that even his raspy, pained, whispery voice would be convincing enough this time around. 

“This is all very _lovely_ and _touching_ ,” he said, trailing his hand over the ceiling as he descended, “but I would seriously appreciate it if you managed to get Keith here. So far he’s never come for one of you, no matter how much they _scream his name_.”

“Is that your plan then?” Lance said, scowling at him from between the bars. “To get Keith here? What do you want with him anyways?”

Kuro scoffed a little, as if he found Lance to be a naïve child. Instead of answering, he went to the other end of the room and shoved open the metal door to the cooler. A draft of cold air reached them from the cells.

“Kuro—this is ridiculous. Do you seriously expect me to keep my mouth shut after all of this? You haven’t let me out of this cage in _weeks_ because you _know_ you can’t do anything to me,” Shiro remarked as Kuro approached them. “I’m sure you’ve fantasized about killing me, but you’d never be able to. I’ll be a thorn in your side for the rest of your goddamn life if you do anything to Lance.”

“Too fucking late,” Kuro said, yanking open Lance’s cell door. He pushed himself back, away from Kuro as he advanced on Lance and snagged him by the wrists. 

“ _No!_ Let me _go!_ ” Lance snarled, Shiro’s shouts rising up with his.

“Convincing—Keith trained you well,” he commented as he unlocked the chain from the wall and walked out of the cell with it. “You might be my greatest chance yet.” Lance trapped his foot on the bars and heaved himself back, trying to grapple for purchase on the floor as Kuro dragged him by the chain. Shiro followed them as far as he could, screaming for his brother to let Lance go. 

The edge of the cooler touched Lance’s feet before Kuro bent down and heaved Lance up and over the threshold by the wrists. He was thrust into the bitter cold, and collapsed on the ground. Kuro flicked on the light and stepped back to the door. “Tell Keithy I say ‘Hi’ when you reach him. This is the most soundproof room I can afford you,” he said before slamming and locking the door.

Lance looked up from the floor, and let out a breathless scream, clamping his hands over his mouth as he backed away, and into the crusty, ice-bitten flesh of one woman—and the dozens of other women accompanying him in that cooler in the basement of Kuro’s cabin.

Lance ran to the door and hammered his fists against it; even the chill was unable to take away the aching in his hand. A frozen woman was leant up against the wall beside him—the first woman he saw—and her eyelids were like glass over her cloudy eyes. He could see the frozen blue veins beneath her skin and how the ice collected as crystals against her pores. He pressed his head to the door and shuddered, tears freezing on his cheeks as he refused to look around the cooler. He didn’t know how big it was, or how many women and men were there aside from the quick glimpse he spared himself.

He started screaming for Keith even if his voice was nonexistent, and his teeth chattered. He screamed it as loud as he could, and at first it was audible, but then it just turned to air with magic so tangible, and breath so cold, that it transformed into shimmering clouds. He felt the world go monochromatic in blues and whites as he looked at the woman propped up like a statue against the wall, and screamed Keith’s name at her, and all the others against the wall behind her.

  


  


Keith woke in the middle of the night to the distinct sensation that he was never really sleeping, just waiting for something to prod him up out of bed. So he threw the blankets off of himself and groaned off the mattress. He couldn’t stand the monotony of yet another day starting at four-fucking-AM, but there he was, heading down to the kitchen to make himself some coffee.

As it brewed, he nudged a hand over his eyes and yawned. Was this what it felt like to be alive? Waiting, and watching coffee turn dark? It sure felt like it some days, considering how slow every day life crawled by. He supposed the work helped. Pidge always called him a workaholic, but he figured it kept him from becoming like—

 _No_. He may not have held much regard for humanity, but he _wasn’t_ a murderer.

He looked towards the temptation on the other side of the kitchen, beyond the lines of steel-topped tables and marble countertops. If he stuck around the house today, he’d most likely be drawn to the basement door more often than not. He convinced himself to remain independent. Being away from Lance was good once in a while—it reminded him that he was still capable of being on his own these days. 

The longer he spent around Lance, the more he was convinced that his father’s old hypothesis was true. Keith had never felt the warmth blossom in his chest like it did when he spent time beside Lance, and selfishly sapped away his emotional energy. He convinced himself that he wasn’t _entirely_ a parasite to Lance—though he sure felt like it most days. He knew very well now that it had been a mistake to tell Lance about the connection between psychopaths and charmers. That wasn’t his brightest idea.

He finished pouring the water over the coffee beans and waited for it to drip the rest out. He took about one sip before he realized how much Lance being downstairs bothered him. 

Annoyed with himself for caving so soon, he trudged towards the door with a sigh. He grabbed a flashlight from the drawer on the way there and flicked it on as he headed down the stairs. He could already hear Pidge taunting him for breaking so quickly as he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned the corner to the room he kept Lance in. 

The door was open.

He hesitated, thinking he must have gotten the wrong room— _hoping_ he had—but this was most certainly the one. He rushed forward, leaning into the room. His heart leapt to his throat, the shock of it settling in. How far could Lance have gone? _Fuck_ he should have had Pidge guarding the stairs. _No one_ could pick locks like these except—

_Keith—Keith! KEITH!_

Lance’s voice plucked at his brain, and startled him into dropping the coffee mug. “ _Shit_ ,” he hissed, turning on his heels and sprinting to the stairs. He clamored up the stairs, and was in the kitchen before the sun was even up, shouting, “ _Pidge!_ Code red!”

He ran past her room to his office, screaming it until he finally heard her door open. “ _Fuck_ , he’s got Lance now?” she said, leaning into the office. “Are you gonna go get him?”

“Do I really have a choice?” he hissed. “Lance is seriously our best chance at normalcy, and I _really_ don’t want you to turn into a serial killer like Kuro.”

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, and can I really hold you to your word?” he hissed from over the desk before ducking underneath it. After opening the latch underneath his desk, he peered over the surface of it to where Pidge shrugged in the doorway. “Would you like to come with, or are you just going to stay here?”

She huffed, crossing her arms and looking away, pissed that she was being offered an option. Being told what to do—to come with him—wouldn’t make her admit that she wanted to help Lance. At last she sighed, “ _Okay_. I’ll come with you. Are you happy?”

“Immensely. Besides, we’ll need a getaway driver. And a distraction.”

“I’m not the greatest driver,” she reminded him as he tossed a gun to her over the desk. She jolted out and caught it, and her eyes glistened at the sight of it. “Ooh, this is a good one.”

He pulled out a kit from the far back of his desk and laid it over the paperwork he had organized on his desk. Pidge stepped forward and leapt for her lucky blade—a switchblade with a wooden handle neatly polished and varnished. She flicked it out and snapped it shut again. “He won’t be too pleased to see me with this again,” she commented, puffing out her chest as she beamed at Keith. He gave her a dull look and put the knives back. 

He remembered clearly the day Kuro came to his house as if nothing had happened. Pidge had been so furious—she was only ten at the time—and he thought he’d never see her _that_ angry ever again. He’d been too much of a mess to stop her, but he watched from the third floor balcony as Pidge tackled Kuro in the front lawn and slashed the knife across his face. It was meant to be a killing blow, but Kuro managed to get a hold of her and flung her into the rose bushes. She was still barking at him as he drove off.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he told her. “We aren’t trying to scare him off this time. You’re going to make sure he dies today.”

  


  


Lance shuddered against the door of the cooler, curled into the corner where he wouldn’t have to see the corpses. He hugged his hands to his armpits, but he could feel them growing purple like the color of his lips. The torn, silk clothes Keith gave him did little to provide even a fraction of warmth. It was almost as if he was wearing nothing at all.

It hurt to cry. The tears crusted shut his swollen eye. He smudged his bandaged hand over it, clearing away the frost from his eyelashes. He could see the scratches and cuts from falling down the stairs as benign, bloody patches now that the shiny red liquid was frozen to a halt.

Every now and then he heard something like Shiro’s voice outside of the cooler, but he couldn’t make out the words. He heard footsteps on the concrete outside the door, and Lance jolted at the sound of the door lock being tried. A deafening _BANG!_ erupted over his head, and he ducked to avoid it, turning towards the door lock. Weakly, he tried to stand up as something rammed into the lock again and again before it finally broke and a strip of darkness broke through the door.

It ripped open a second later, and a wave of warmth drenched over him—he craved it. He leant in to the embrace of someone picking him up off the ground, cradling him to their chest. His feet were swept up so he could gather his balance. He was suddenly face-to-face with Keith, who was saying something Lance couldn’t hear until something cracked overhead again and sent a bolt of fear down his spine. 

“—ot Pidge upstairs she’s taking care of Kuro,” Keith was saying as he slammed the cooler door shut behind him, so hard it bounced back. He held Lance’s purple fingers up to his lips and breathed on them. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” he asked.

Lance’s teeth were chattering nonstop as he looked over at Shiro’s cell, still locked and hosting his best friend, who was trying desperately to stand and ram straight through the bars. “Get your fucking hands off of him!” Shiro snarled at Keith. “ _You complete ass—_ ”

“Th-There’s…” Lance started, voice squeaking. Both Keith and Shiro stopped, looking to him. He cleared his throat and said, “Th-There’s so many in there. S-So m-many—”

“I know, Lance, I know,” Keith said, hands rubbing up and down Lance’s bare arms. “I would never let that happen to you—I’m here now—”

“Like hell you are! Get your hands off him!” Shiro hissed, chains clanking against the bars as he strained against them. 

_Free_. Lance realized that he wasn’t in a cell. His feet were moving before he could stop himself, reaching for the axe Keith used to break through the narrow basement window, and break the lock on the freezer. His hands were shaking as Keith took the axe from him, about to resist.

Lance grabbed hold of his arm and said, as forcefully as he could, “ _Free him_.” 

He wasn’t sure what he expected, especially as he heard something crash upstairs. He’d never heard Pidge scream before, but her shout followed almost instantly. Her curses were loud and jarring, and Keith’s eyes went wide when he heard them, too. Lance’s hand was still gripping his wrist.

“ _Free Shiro_. Do it _now_ ,” Lance hissed.

Keith seemed to sneer at him before turning away with a curse and forcing himself to the cell. His scowl was murderous as he rammed the metal end of the axe against the lock on Shiro’s door. Lance always assumed that Keith had some form of enhanced strength, and the fact that he was bending metal after two strikes convinced Lance of this. The lock came loose and Lance rushed forward to pull it out and shove open the cell door. 

All of his limbs seemed to tingle under the numbness from the cold. He collapsed in front of Shiro and roped him into a tight hug that Shiro leaned into. Their heads pressed together as Keith knelt behind Shiro and pulled a set of pins out of his back pocket. He was working fast, but he didn’t quite make it before they heard the door to the basement slam open. 

The pin in Keith’s hand dropped, and he cursed, “ _Fuck_. Lance, help me.”

“I don’t know how,” he said, voice barely above a whisper as they heard heavy footsteps clamor down the stairs.

“Lance, _please—_ ” Keith started, swapping tools and prying two wrenches into the space of the padlock. “Squeeze these like you’re—” Keith’s hands were shaking, perhaps even worse than Lance’s by the time Shiro shouted and Lance was yanked away from them and thrown against the bars of the cell. Keith scrambled away from Shiro, and Kuro advanced on him, kicking the tools away with his foot.

“ _There_ you are, my pretty pet,” Kuro seethed at Keith, who had himself flattened and cornered into the concrete wall of the cell. “Miss me?”

“You were always a conceited fuck,” Keith snapped. “I hope Pidge gave you another scar.”

“Your guard dog was always a pain in my—” Kuro didn’t finish. Shiro kicked his feet out at the backs of Kuro’s knees and slammed his shoulder into his backside.

Keith rammed his knee up and slammed it into Kuro’s nose, only to curse when something seized control of every limb of his body. It was like some great hand clenched Keith’s arms to his sides, and sent him spasming on the floor. Lance squeaked from across the cell, and rushed for Shiro when he collapsed alongside Keith, eyes rolling back and sending him convulsing on the floor.

Kuro sat up with a groan, pushing two hands against his nose and reseting it with a _crack_. “You always did like to be difficult,” Kuro commented, peering over at Keith, whose body collapsed, chest heaving as he tried to gather back control. Lance watched with wide eyes as Keith reached towards the bars of the cell to get away. Kuro stretched out a hand and grabbed Keith by the ankle, and he heard the faintest, most terrified, “ _No_ , don’t—” come from Keith’s mouth.

Keith’s head cracked back with a scream, a jolt coursing through him. Lance clamped his hands over his mouth as he was suddenly aware that he, too, was screaming, and called attention to himself almost instantly. 

Kuro’s amber eyes snapped over to Lance, who remained untouched near the door, trembling still. 

Keith dropped with a cry of pain, a snap echoing like the electricity of Kuro’s magic touch retracting from Keith’s ankle. The spark of it was numb and blue, and fizzled out as Kuro stood up and stepped over his brother. Shiro was still jolting on the ground, foam oozing from his mouth. 

“Don’t do anything to him,” Keith said. “Kuro, _please—_ ”

“Please _what?_ ” he crooned, tipping his head as he observed the way Lance stared up at him, and then over at where Keith looked like he was about to be ill. Kuro lifted his boot up to Lance’s neck, and hefted his chin up. “What are you willing to do, _Kogane_.”

Keith was silent, breathing hard as Kuro crouched in front of Lance, retracting his boot in favor of dragging Lance forward by the jaw. Lance forced himself to look at Shiro instead, telling himself that Shiro wouldn’t do this. This isn’t Shiro. Lance found himself thinking of Pidge as he saw the cut marks freshly dragged down the side of Kuro’s face, and how his shirt was in tatters, showing all the cuts and marks from his fight with Pidge. He saw the blood oozing out of a heavy wound on his shoulder—a bullet—and how that didn’t even seem to hinder him as he yanked down the fly of his pants. 

“ _Wait!_ ” Keith shouted. “Me. Not him. Me, please Kuro. Don’t do that to him.”

Shiro’s seizures momentarily faded, and he coughed up bile onto the concrete. He panted, crouched on the concrete as Kuro stared at Keith for a long moment before standing up, and dragging Lance up with him. He shoved Lance through the cell door before he moved over to Shiro and physically tore the chain from the wall, and ripped it off the cuffs on Shiro’s wrists. Shiro was in such a daze that he barely seemed to register that anything was happening at all, especially not when Kuro went to the door and rammed it shut before Keith could stop him. 

He wove the chain through the bars as Keith staggered up, tipping over in his daze. “Kuro don’t! Don’t you _dare_ ,” he seethed through the bars. Lance struggled to stand up, legs weak from the freezer. Kuro clamped his hands over the chains, and they burned red hot for a moment, melding together in a matter of seconds.

His searing hot hand clamped onto Lance’s wrist, dragging him back from the stairs. Lance screamed, breath momentarily lost as he was thrown onto the concrete. He slammed onto his back with a gasp that pulled out all the air in his lungs. He could hear Keith screaming from the cell, rattling the chain and snatching the axe up, slamming it into the door as hard as he could. 

Kuro pinned Lance to the ground and tore off his blood-soaked pants. Lance tried desperately to claw at Kuro’s eyes, but failed to before the hand on his chest sent sparks into his vision. Lance was convulsing before Kuro even started fucking him—not that he could tell, because his entire body was on fire, and acted without control or restraint. 

White crossed over into his vision, so fiery in its intensity that his ears popped and strained against the sudden sparking sensation crawling its way up his spine. His head rammed repeatedly into the concrete, reopening the wound Keith gave him. It felt as though the heat of Kuro’s hands were setting a fire through his bloodstream, and pushing his heart into overdrive. 

Lance was so sure he was going to die. And if he didn’t die during this, he’d be a vegetable afterwards.

He never experience such acute, all-encompassing agony before in his life.

The sharp pinch of it on his spine ceased altogether, suddenly, and he realized he was screaming, “ _STOP!_ ” at the top of his lungs, despite how weak his voice was. Kuro was still over him, hand still heavy like a goddamn stack of bricks on his chest. Lance was seeing red before he could stop himself, and in his weakened, shaky haze, he searched for the first weapon available. 

“Keith, give him the pin,” he demanded, pointing to the lock kit Keith brought with him. It plinked across the concrete, and Kuro pushed himself off of Lance, eyes wide and pants still half-off as he leaned back on his heels. 

Lance couldn’t even look at him without dreading every part of him that wasn’t Shiro. “Kuro, take the pin. Put it through your heart,” he commanded, pushing himself off the ground and turning away so he wouldn’t have to see it. He staggered up, tripping over his feet and falling to his knees again as he heard Kuro fall to his hands, and slump onto his side. 

He pulled his pants up, and staggered over to the cell where Keith was standing, waiting for him. “Unlock the cuffs on Shiro,” Lance told him tiredly.

Keith nodded softly, eyes still wide as he went back to where Shiro sat, staring at the blood pooling underneath his brother’s body.

The situation sank in quickly, and by the time Keith and Shiro broke out of the cell, Lance was sobbing gross elephant tears. Shiro ran to him, and Keith passed him, staring at Lance before he turned to sprint up the stairs, calling Pidge’s name. Lance pushed his eyes into Shiro’s shoulders and let out such a tremendous sob, it shook every part of him and made his knees weak again. They slumped against one another on the ground as Shiro’s tears dampened Lance’s head bandage.

“I-I k-killed your br-brother,” Lance cried. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be, don’t be,” Shiro said, rubbing his hand up and down Lance’s back as his voice shook, too. “It’s okay now. It’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ???
> 
> Kuro literally has an electric dick. Who would have thought?? Honestly it's the first thing that came to mind. Also: important to note: It's gonna be mentioned later on but a lot of Keith's previous charmers were prostitutes "owned by" Kuro. So it's safe to assume that most of the charmers in the cooler were actually employed by Kuro.
> 
> I LITERALLY FINISHED THE WHOLE DANG BOOK LAST NIGHT!! So I'm gonna post again tonight to celebrate!!
> 
> Also, in terms of **my next book** I want to know something: Would you guys prefer me filling existing spaces with my characters (i.e. Seattle, NYC, San Fran), or making my own locations? Because I've definitely done both, and I have an idea for either or, so... it's really up to you guys. 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/)!


	12. cornelius the teddy bear: adventures in seattle

Shiro carried Lance up the stairs and set his feet on the floor when they reached the living room. The entire place was in a disarray, and the wood walls were splintered with bullet holes, and at some point someone must have thrown the deer head, because its antlers were now lodged in the back of the couch that was tipped up against the wall.

They heard Keith and Pidge before they saw them. Keith was trying to carry Pidge out the door, but she was cussing and making a fuss, yelling, “I have legs! I can use them! Ignore the blood!”

“You literally have a bullet hole in your leg—I’m carrying you,” Keith hissed at her. “Don’t fucking argue with me, young lady.”

Pidge was a complete mess. Lance had to stop and remind himself that this was her, and not some apocalyptic version of Pidge. Her hair was matted with blood from a wound on her temple, her eyes were swollen and lip split, and on top of it, she had strangle marks on her neck that showed the burnt bruises from Kuro’s sparks. He must have throttled her by the neck and electrocuted her.

She turned and saw him, and broke into a massive smile. “Lance! You’re alive! I-I mean, gross. You should have died.” She scowled at him then, crossing her arms and turning away with a huff. “I’m leaving. Bye.”

Lance laughed, sniffling as he walked towards them. He didn’t want to admit it, but his ass was sore and he really should have given into the limp he tried to cover up because he _burned_ like _nothing else_. “Love you too, Pidge,” he laughed, and looked over at Shiro, who was staring between the three of them, his skepticism clear. “Wait, Pidge—I want to introduce you to Shiro.”

“Ah, yes, the infamous one,” she muttered, glaring up at him.

“Shiro, this is Katie Holt, but she goes by Pidge now,” he explained. He saw Pidge smirk before he looked back and saw Shiro go pale. It took a moment for him to realize why—Katie Holt was nothing but a ghost now. “She’s been living with Keith! Yeah, she was the bartender at all of the parties and she’s a really great chef.”

“But, what about—”

“Let’s not talk about that right now!” Lance blurted out, waving the conversation off. He pushed a hand to his forehead and muttered, “I should have just introduced you as Pidge.”

“That’s okay. I’m glad you think I’m an excellent chef,” she said, smiling at him. She swayed on her heels and nearly fell over if Keith hadn’t caught her. “Well, I’m gonna go back to the car now. Nice meeting you Shiro.”

“Uh, you as well,” he said, wincing a little as he peered around Keith to watch Pidge waddle off to the car. He straightened up again and cleared his throat, now facing Keith, who seemed to be unintentionally blocking the doorway. 

Lance watching Keith until the man’s expression seemed to crumble. He looked away and said, “Lance, I’m—This shouldn’t have happened. I never intended for you to get involved with Kuro so soon.”

“Yes, well… it already happened. Are you going to apologize?”

“No. I don’t _need_ to apologize to you,” Keith hissed at him, and collected himself before Shiro could lunge at him. “But… I would…” He cleared his throat painfully, eyeing Shiro before he looked at Lance directly and said, “I would do anything to convince you to come back with me. But I see now that I can’t exactly _force you to_. So the decision is all yours.”

Lance found himself hesitating, and covered it up by narrowing his eyes at Keith. Keith couldn’t force him to do anything now. He killed a man with his words, he could just as easily do the same to Keith…

 _No, Keith isn’t a murderer_ , Lance told himself, strictly. _An eye for an eye_.

But he found himself not wanting to turn Keith in. Something told him that would be a terrible mistake. His company would suffer, Pidge would be put into juvenile prison and be torn to shreds. He didn’t want to see that happen. 

“No,” he said, crossing his arms. “The best thing you can do now is stay away from me. I never want to see you again,” he said, the words imprinting themselves like the sparks of Kuro’s magic on his tongue. Keith couldn’t even look at Lance, and barely got a second glance before the charm set in and sent Keith turning on his heels. 

Keith was at the driver’s side before he ever turned around and looked back at the cabin door. “Would you… at least like a ride?” he asked.

“We’ll be fine,” Shiro told him, because Lance had already turned inside and started for the kitchen.

Lance slammed through all the cupboards before breaking into the liquor cabinet and the refrigerator. He searched for a wine bottle opener and popped the cork on the bottle by the time Shiro came in and took it from him. “This is a crime scene now, you can’t be eating the food,” he told Lance.

“I haven’t eaten in a while and I’m starving,” he hissed, and instantly Shiro backed off.

“What do you want to do about Kogane?”

“Nothing. Leave him be,” he muttered, tearing into the bag of fruit with his teeth. He took a swing of the wine and puckered his lips at the tart taste on his tongue. He groaned, “Ugh, that’s _wretched_.” 

As Lance sipped from the bottle and popped fruit into his mouth, they discussed what they would tell the police. The precinct already knew the both of them were missing, and Shiro was related to Kuro, so assuming the entire endeavor was swept up by Kuro was easy enough. Kuro’s motivation was taking someone close to Shiro before taking Shiro himself. Lance felt guilty for composing the story with Shiro, mainly because he wasn’t sure what sort of relationship Shiro had with his brother in the first place. Did Shiro intend to put Kuro in prison? Would he forever resent Lance for killing his brother? 

At the time, though, Lance was thrilled to be sharing the same space as Shiro. Despite being bruised and battered, Shiro was exactly who he was before the entire affair. He was gentle with Lance when he addressed the fact that eventually, Lance would have to talk about what had happened with Keith, but for now, Lance charmed his way out of it. All it took was a simple, “I don’t want to talk about it,” and Shiro didn’t step near the subject again.

So Shiro used the landline and called the precinct up. Within the hour, the cabin was swarming with police and medics who fretted over Lance and pulled him into the back of the boxy ambulance truck. Shiro attempted to follow after him, but the team in charge of his case held him back and reassured him that he’d be able to visit Lance at the hospital.

Lance spent several days and nights in a hospital bed, being fed regular meals and on an IV drip due to dehydration. His head was bandaged and he spent the first day in a drugged daze to hold back the pain that began to blossom from the concussion. A surgeon inspected his hand, which was still only half-healed, and they arranged for treatment and a proper cast for the remainder of the healing process. He’d have to go through physical therapy to help his fingers work back to their normal strength. 

“You might have problems with the joints later on in life, seeing as the bones weren’t properly pinned into place, but you will have no problem functioning normally when they’re fully healed,” the doctor informed him after an X-ray was pulled up. Lance visibly winced at the sight of his bone structure on the board, because it definitely _wasn’t_ symmetrical. 

Overall, though, the nurses were nice to him, and had such impeccable manners that it hardly even felt like they were invading his privacy by checking the fissure in his bum. The first time, though, he nearly kneed the woman in the face. After that, though, they only checked one other time before he was released. “Be sure to do your baths twice a day—never more than three times a day,” the nurse told him. “It should heal just fine. If you have any problems, come back for a checkup. Be sure to eat a fiber rich diet as well—to make your trips to the restroom less painful.”

He blushed a little and hoped that Shiro hadn’t heard that from where he waited outside of the room for Lance.

The nurse gave Shiro a soft smile as she hurried on to the next room. Lance walked out after her, and waved goodbye before she slipped through the neighboring door. “How is everything?” Shiro asked. 

“Fine. I just have to wear sunglasses in the sunlight,” Lance told him. “You brought them, right?”

“Oh, right. Hunk actually picked them up for me. I walked from the precinct over here,” he said. “Are you sure you’re okay, though? Really?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine,” he reassured Shiro, and released a sigh as he rubbed at his temple. “I wish people would stop asking me that.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop mentioning it,” he said, the guilt seeping into his words. It just ended up making Lance feel dreadful for snapping at Shiro. 

He frowned on the way out of the hospital, but managed a smile for the nurses who visited him those few days. As they stepped outside under the awning, the entire pavement was drenched in rainwater, and the sidewalk was speckled with it where the trees didn’t cover the ground. 

In the parking lot, Hunk was waiting for them underneath an umbrella. He hurried over with an extra, but forgot to hand it to them before he was hugging them both so tightly that Lance was certain he was seeing stars. Hunk came to visit him the first day in the hospital, and brought with him clothes from Lance’s apartment considering he didn’t have anything decent to wear outside. He hoped those silk pants and shirts were incinerated.

“ _Lance!_ Shiro! Oh, I’m so glad you two are all right,” he burst out, stepping back to beam at them. After a moment, he slapped Shiro on the arm and scolded him, “I _told you_ snooping around Mister Kogane’s estate was a bad idea!”

“I know, I know—I should have listened to you,” Shiro sighed, but smiled nonetheless. 

“I was _so sure_ Kogane had something to do with this,” Hunk confessed. “But that waitress Allura wouldn’t let me get involved. And for good reason. But—I’m glad you two are okay now.”

“You talked to Allura?” Lance asked.

“Yeah. It was so strange—someone ordered an avocado omelette and Allura thought it was fishy so I told her to look into it. I don’t think anything became of it, but Kogane ordered it, and Shiro was all worried about you being over there, so I figured it was worth a shot,” Hunk confessed. “Well. Lesson learned: No more going to parties and leaving people behind.”

Lance giggled and reached for Hunk again. He leant in to Hunk’s side-hug as they walked to the car. Shiro walked beside them under the umbrella Hunk brought him, and as Lance glanced over at him, he smiled encouragingly. Even in the rain, everything was absolutely, unequivocally sunny.

  


  


Hunk and Shiro escorted Lance up the steps to his apartment. Hunk used his spare key to open up the place, and hesitated with his door on the handle. “It might be a bit of a mess. Some people dropped off ‘welcome back’ gifts,” he warned Lance.

“That’s okay. Open it up—I wanna take a nap in my own bed,” Lance insisted, eagerly prancing in place as Hunk finally pushed the door open.

In the direct center of the living room, sat on his grandma’s floral couch, was the biggest fucking stuffed teddy-bear Lance had ever seen. He squealed in excitement, clapping his hands as he ran over to it and huddled up next to it. There were cards strewn across his coffee table, and flowers over in his kitchen and at all the windows. “You like the teddy bear?” Hunk asked. “Shiro said it was too much.”

“It _is_ too much,” Shiro huffed. “A small size would have sufficed.”

“Are you kidding? This is the best thing anyone’s ever given me—thank you Hunk,” Lance cried out, jumping up to hug his friend again. “I will cherish it forever. What’s its name?”

“You get to name him,” he said.

So together they studied the teddybear and decided on a name. “I do like the name Cornelius,” Lance confessed, pinching his fingers against his lips. He reached into Shiro’s jacket pocket and pulled out his box of ciggies and lit up. “What do you think?”

“Cornelius is an excellent name,” Shiro agreed. “But what are you going to name your first son then?”

“ _God_. I’m not ready for children,” Lance laughed, smoke curling off his lips as he collapsed next to Cornelius. “So what have we missed, Hunk?”

Hunk went to the kitchen and fetched the newspapers stacked there. He brought them over and handed several significant ones to Shiro, and… a large stack to Lance. “You were gone longer, so… Shay helped me organize the ones that are relevant. She marked her favorite articles as well with red ink.”

“It’s like you two are an elderly married couple already, sorting through your friend’s newspaper together and picking out favorite articles like that,” Lance laughed. “How is she? I remember she was really sweet on you.”

“Is that to say I’m not sweet on her? We go out nearly every weekend when she’s not working. She’s on call all the time, so you never know when she’s got to run off,” he confessed. “She’s still really nice. She’d love to see you again, but she wasn’t sure if you’d want a few days to yourself. You know, to get yourself back on track.”

“No, no, that’s fine. I think… Shay might be really useful when it comes to scouring the newspapers for new job postings,” he confessed, frowning down at the paper. He’d been gone for so long that his position was refilled. They waited out for him for quite some time—Shiro said they waited nearly a month before hiring someone to fill Lance’s spot. 

“If the newbie doesn’t work out, I’m sure they’d be happy to take you back,” Shiro told him. “Your boss had only good things to say about you.”

“Yeah, well, doesn’t everybody,” Lance sighed. “And I never really liked busy work anyways. I don’t want another desk job.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Shiro promised, sitting beside him and rubbing his back gently. He was grateful that Hunk followed his terms when it came to what specific clothes to bring to the hospital. Even in the summer weather, Lance desired something to keep his back thoroughly covered. The ugly, torn-up scar between his shoulder blades healed in raised patches. He remembered the silence that followed when he removed his shirt for the nurses to disinfect the open wounds on his back that were both self-inflicted, and the consequence of being slammed into the tree roots when he tried to run away—

“Hey, Lance, you okay?” Hunk asked, jostling his knee to bring him back to the living room where he was worrying about finding a job. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“I was just saying that I’d be happy to help pay your rent—until you’re back on your feet, I mean. I… was worried that you were going to get evicted, and Shiro was so sure you were still alive that I picked up the payments. We’ll have to go through some paperwork to sort out getting your name back on the lease, so until you get a job, I can take care of your rent.”

“Oh, Hunk, you don’t have to,” Lance said, pained that he had put so much on Hunk as it was. 

But Hunk shook his head, though he said, “If you really don’t want me to, though, I can set up an appointment with your landlord as soon as possible.”

The response was so mechanical, and Lance never really analyzed it until weeks later, when he started to hear it everywhere. Instead, though, he insisted that Hunk did the right thing, picking up Lance’s rent for him when he couldn’t possibly afford it, having been absent from work for nearly two whole months.

That night Shiro stayed in the living room, and Lance laid awake wondering about the chances of Keith disobeying his orders and jumping through his window. He felt the distinct need for a safe house. Some place off the radar where he wouldn’t be threatened with dark rooms, bed restraints, and tall brick walls covered in thorns. He thought so much about Keith and Pidge that he saw them in his dreams and woke up screaming their names unintentionally until Shiro bolted into the room to calm him down. 

After he would wake up screaming, Lance would hug his knees to his chest and muffle his mouth against them as Shiro rubbed his back and combed his fingers through Lance’s hair. He couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t keep screaming their names in fear of it being the way they ended up finding him, prompting to break his orders by the temptation of his voice in their heads. 

Shiro stayed in the bed afterwards, and at every opportunity he could, he would catch Lance as he started to mumble in his sleep, and sooth the dreams away with gentle, calming strokes of his hand against Lance’s arms.

“I-I don’t want to stay here anymore,” Lance confessed, staring blankly at the wall across from the bed. 

Shiro tipped his cheek against Lance’s shoulder and said, “Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere but here,” he croaked. “I-I’m afraid th-that someone will find me here.”

“The apartment’s under Hunk’s name. Right now it’s like you don’t even have an address under your name,” Shiro reassured him. “No one can look you up and find you here.”

That fact reassured him somewhat, but he still thought about it after Shiro left in the morning for work. He packed a bag first thing in the morning and stood staring at Cornelius, wishing he could carry that big fluffy teddy bear anywhere. 

Lance left the apartment staggering under the weight of Cornelius. He walked down the street with him, and eventually managed to lug him underneath his arm—which was _still_ a task, considering the floppy legs threatened to drag on the damp concrete. People gave him weird looks as he marched down to Pike’s Market, and down the street to his favorite café. He saw beyond the plastic open sign one of the waitresses do a double-take before hurrying to the door and helping Lance stuff Cornelius through. 

“Lance!” she blurted out, and again, “What’s… with the teddy bear?”

“I don’t like sitting in my apartment,” he confessed. “And I didn’t want to leave Cornelius behind. I hope you don’t mind?”

The two of them squeezed Cornelius into the booth, and Lance nudged himself in beside Cornelius so he could lean his head against the teddy bear’s shoulder. The waitress—her name was Nyma, and the skin on her arms was freckled with birthmarks like white gloves—took a seat across from Lance and gave him a pitying look that sent him spiraling onto a guilty track. He hated it when people gave him pity, even before everything that happened, and now…

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Oh yeah, everything’s great,” he said, and he wasn’t sure if he intended his sarcasm to be taken seriously, but she seemed to take it as a genuine answer. 

“How’s Shiro? Are you two still…?”

“Still what?”

“Well—I never really—I mean, you two are _dating_ , aren’t you?” she asked, and Lance sat up straighter, laughing. “Well, you two give off that sort of vibe!”

“ _No_ , we aren’t _dating_ ,” Lance giggled. “We’re just… really good friends.” _If best friends kissed one another so frequently_ , he thought.

Lance could tolerate Shiro’s gentle kisses—to his forehead, his cheek, his nose—but if he closed his eyes to one of their make-out sessions, he ended up shoving Shiro so hard off the love seat that he smashed his head against the coffee table. He still had a bump from it considering that just happened yesterday. 

He’d only been back at the apartment for three days and barely left. He came to The Quilted Lion once that first day, just to make appearances and reassure everyone that he really was okay. Other than that, he wasn’t interested in doing much aside from reading. 

“Hunk says you’ve turned into a bookworm,” she commented, and just at that moment, the manager—Allura—strolled up with that striking smile. She squeezed into the booth next to Nyma.

“I have dozens of book suggestions!” she told Lance. “I could bring over a few if you’d like? Tomorrow or something?”

“Yeah, that sounds perfect,” he confessed, and they delved back into old conversations until Nyma had to go see one of her tables and left.

Lance spent the vast majority of his mornings at the café after that. That day he didn’t leave until around noon during the lunch rush, so that he could give up his table to someone else. He left as much of a tip as he could afford—considering his current situation—and slung his duffle over his shoulder. He dragged Cornelius out of the booth and started down the boardwalk in the direction of Shiro’s apartment. 

He hurried past Keith’s bank, partially covering himself with Cornelius as he did so. He didn’t care that people looked at him weird as he practically ran across the street and jogged down a block, huffing under the weight of the massive teddy bear. 

Since he didn’t look, he never knew that Keith’s office was on the corner of the street, several floors up. It was pure coincidence that he had been looking out his window at that moment Lance hurried across the street, lugging that massive fucking teddy bear over his head. Really, Keith shouldn’t have recognized him, but he had, and regardless of the guilt that came with following him, Keith bolted out of his chair and disregarded the secretary about to walk into his office.

He shouldered past her, pardoning himself as he flew down the stairs and circled the railing on his way out of the bank. He kept his eyes on that teddy bear turning the corner a block down, and was so distracted by it that he would have been run over by a car had his secretary not followed him out and shouted, “Mister Kogane—watch out!” 

He skidded on the curb and bolted the second there was an opening in traffic. He ran the length of the block, and spun around the corner to where Lance disappeared. Keith knew just where Lance’s apartment was so where could he—

The road was empty.

Lance was already in Shiro’s apartment building, shoving Cornelius up the steps with a grunt as they reached the first landing. He collapsed against Cornelius, breathing hard, and jumped when one of the neighbors opened their door to leave and found it covered by a massive teddy bear. “Oh! Oh, my,” she blurted out.

“Oh, sorry Mrs. Plaxum!” Lance apologized, pushing himself up again. “I’m just taking a break.”

“Lance!” she exploded, and climbed over the bear to cover him in hugs and kisses. He giggled at the attention, cheeks pink as he felt a print of lipstick on them. “So nice to see you! I’m really in a rush, so I’ll talk to you later, all right? Have a nice day!”

“You as well, ma’am,” he said, saluting her before he grabbed Cornelius by the arm and began dragging him up the stairs. 

After dumping his things in Shiro’s apartment, he left and locked the door on his way down to the first floor landing. He stepped out of the apartment feeling relaxed for the first time since getting back home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll post again same time as usual tomorrow! 
> 
> It won't be mentioned, but in case you didn't know... FUN FACT: Keith totally looked up Lance's address the second he figured out who Lance was from the license in his wallet! He totally staked out the place and snuck in when he knew none of the neighbors would be around!! He totally looked around the place tryna find clues about who the hell Lance was!!! He probably found Lance's weird closet full of clothes like _27 Dresses_ all over again and was like "what the fuck is this?" I like to think that Keith totally tried on one of them and posed in front of the mirror, but he's too stuffy for that nonsense. 
> 
> CONSENSUS: populating IRL place. Next location—TECHNICALLY WHISTLER, BC, CANADA! But next fic that I'm posting soon—10/10 **MILWAUKEE OR CHICAGO** PICK ONE I DARE YOU !!


	13. recovery roses

Lance spent more time at the precinct than he wanted. Even after the case of the missing two-dozen charmers took over everything that involved Lance, Iverson called him up again to come in. Shiro offered to walk Lance there, and while Shiro was always a cheerful guy, he seemed… _uncharacteristically_ so. Lance didn’t question it, though, until he was alone in Iverson’s office, sat at one of the two available seats, and was asked, “Would you consider taking up a job here?”

Lance blinked at Iverson and shook his head in disbelief. “Um, what—? What makes you say—”

“Of course, training would be in order, and we’d pay for everything involving the educational program—but I feel that you’d be an incredible asset to the interrogations department,” he explained, and before Lance could argue against it, he continued, “And considering the entire case, and everything Shirogane told me, we would accept any charmer of your skill on the force. The classes would refine your knowledge on the subjects you’ll be tackling, and teach you how to deal with the position we’re offering you.”

As Lance was preparing himself to decline the offer—he had an entire, lovely speech planned out by the time Iverson finished talking—, he remembered how thrilled Shiro was throughout the walk. Lance hadn’t _asked_ him to help him find a job, and clearly he seemed to think that this was the perfect fit for Lance. 

It took him a moment to realize he was silent all this time, at least until Iverson said, “So what do you say? Would you like a day to process it? I have some paperwork that you can look over, and come back when you’re ready.”

“I—um—Yes, that’d be perfect. I can’t say I’m entirely sure what I’d be getting into,” he confessed, reaching forward as Iverson passed him a folder of paperwork. “I’ll… think about it. And get back to you before the end of the week.”

“That’s perfectly fine.”

So Lance left Iverson’s office, flustered and flattered all at once. He straightened the front of his shirt—thankfully he’d worn something acceptable—and started on his way out of the precinct. He was barely to the front door when he was interrupted by Shiro abruptly walking up to him and following his steps. 

“So how’d it go?” Shiro asked. “What’d he say?”

Lance laughed a little, scratching the back of his head as he confessed, “Iverson… offered me a _job_. And I’m thinking _you_ had something to do with this?”

Shiro blushed a little and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just told him that you were an incredible charmer. With magic, I mean! With magic.”

He slapped Shiro with the folder anyways, laughing and ordering Shiro get back to work. Shiro left asking what he said about the offer, but he promised to share the details later—when he was actually _capable_ of making a decision.

He felt guilty for moving into Shiro’s apartment, but he figured that even _with_ charming, Shiro would still show some reservation whenever Lance asked, “Are you sure it’s okay I’m here?” It took several days for Lance to realize that Shiro literally had no choice in the matter, and it took a simple argument over dinner plans to realize it.

“What would you like to eat?” Shiro asked him from the kitchen. “Would you like to go out?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really want to leave the apartment.”

“We really only have leftovers. Do you like spaghetti?”

“Yes, but I’m not feeling it right now. Perhaps then we _should_ go out to eat,” Lance sighed remorsefully, and laughed a little as he thought about why they managed to let their food supply get so low. It wasn’t until he heard Shiro zipping up his coat that he realized Shiro took him seriously. “I was kidding—I don’t want to leave the apartment.”

“You were?”

“ _Yes_. What is with you? You haven’t picked up on any of my sarcasm recently,” he complained, and hesitated as he considered the reason why. _No one_ was capable of understanding his sarcasm these days. 

Everything he said was taken as a fact. It explained why that time he and Hunk stood out in the pouring rain earlier that week, Hunk thought he was being serious when he exclaimed what a beautiful, sunny day it was. He’d never seen a more confused individual in his life.

He stopped using sarcasm after Shiro exclaimed that Lance was being ridiculous and unpredictable over something so minute as figuring out dinner plans. Lance had been so furious about this revelation that he screamed something along the lines of, “Will you _stop it_ and _leave me alone?_ I hate it when you take me seriously twenty-four seven!” Shiro had been so startled and irritated that his mouth twisted up and he threw off his jacket, storming to another room where he slammed the door and left Lance alone. It took several painful moments for Lance to realize that Shiro wouldn’t be the one to reinitiate contact here—he was just following rules he couldn’t help but obey. 

Lance came to terms with the fact that he couldn’t talk to anyone without assuming they’d take him for his word. He spoke little in hopes of preventing a shift in the conversation where his friend suddenly became a slave to whatever he said. It was ridiculous and he shouldn’t have had to police himself like this, but he did.

It seemed the only times he was able to talk freely was with Iverson, who was surprisingly—and perhaps _alarmingly_ —capable of calling Lance out on his sarcasm. It startled him whenever Iverson was mean or harsh to him, because that never seemed to be the case with _anyone_ who wasn’t, as he assumed, a psychopath. Whatever the case, he took up the job with Iverson and spent nearly every goddamn day in a stuffy classroom in downtown Seattle, taking classes on psychology and behavior and speech and basic training for his position on the interrogation team.

He found himself thinking about Keith and Pidge more frequently, considering that they were able to ignore Lance’s verbal pushes and pulls like Iverson was. He could tell them the sky was green and they’d probably roll their eyes and go on with their days. He could probably tell Keith “No,” and instead of Shiro’s reaction—falling off a couch and bruising his head—Keith would merely back off and sit there for a moment, eyes wide before he’d burst into a smile and say, “That was _incredibly_ convincing. Kudos to you.”

But even thinking about those two in the Kogane Estate, Lance couldn’t help but feel ridiculous and frivolous and betraying everything everyone assumed—that any captive would be glad to be free of their captor. He wondered how the tides changed, and suddenly Keith and Lance were on equal terms. He felt guilty for regretting telling Keith to stay away and never see him again. 

Somehow, though, Keith was still never able to fully take Lance for his word, considering several days after his revelation, a knock sounded on Shiro’s door.

They had been playing a chess drinking game when Lance leapt up to get the door. He was giggly from the wine, but it tapered off the second he looked through the eyepiece of the door, hand stuck on the door handle. “Who is it?” Shiro asked, recognizing Lance’s quiet demeanor.

He took a quick breath and opened the door without a second thought. Shiro was on his feet in an instant. 

Keith stared at Lance with those wide, grey eyes and blinked mutely, mouth ajar. Eventually, he found his voice, but by that time Shiro had tugged Lance away from the door and blocked his path.

“I—I just wanted to—” Keith started, clearing his throat. He shook his head and returned to that same, bleak frown. “You haven’t been by your apartment so I came here. I figured I’d find you here.”

“Get out,” Shiro growled through clenched teeth, hand held tight to Lance’s. 

“I came to talk to _Lance_ ,” he remarked sharply.

Lance pulled away from Shiro and started walking back to the living room. His shoulders bunched up to his ears as he sat down again, curling his knees up to his chest as he turned his back on the door. 

Shiro walked through the door and shut it behind him, but Lance caught the tail end of, “Lance doesn’t want—” before the rest was muffled. It took a second for Lance to pick up on it again, pressing his cheek to the cushion of the couch as he strained to hear Shiro say, “Leave now before I call the police.”

“I want to hear it from Lance—not his guard dog,” Keith retorted.

“How’d you find my apartment anyways, hm? Or Lance’s for that matter? It isn’t even under his name—”

“I was familiar with where it was before the landlord signed it off to someone else,” Keith replied, words cut like the sharp edge of a knife. It was the sort of tone he used flippantly and without regard. 

“You’ve done enough to him as it is—would it kill you to just _listen for once_ and leave him alone?” Shiro snapped, voice rising. Lance didn’t have to strain to hear it. “I am fully capable of arranging a restraining order against you. Lance wouldn’t even argue against it.”

“Is that what you think? I imagine you feel _great_ being bossed around constantly. How’s it feel being a lapdog who does as he’s told?” Lance started boiling before he could stop himself, already scrambling off the couch. 

Shiro had his hand on the door handle, and jolted when Lance swung the door open, snarling, “ _Fuck off_ , Keith. I said I never wanted to see you again and I fucking meant it.”

Keith didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now that you can’t have a goddamn decent conversation with _anyone—_ ”

“And who’s damn fault is that!” Lance all but screamed. “You’re _ruining_ my _goddamn life_!”

“How the fuck am I ruining it when I’m not even _a part_ of your life anymore!”

Shiro crossed between them, backing Lance into the apartment again. He was steaming with fury, though, and forced himself—yet again—to hold himself back from yelling, “Stay _out of it,_ Shiro!” If he had, he knew Shiro would have backed off, and he would have squared off against Keith when he wasn’t even equipped to do so.

As Shiro pushed Lance back into the apartment, Keith tried to follow after them, only to be shoved in the shoulder by Shiro. “I’m not fucking around,” Shiro hissed. “If I see you over here again, I’m calling the police and getting a restraining order against you.”

Eventually, the door closed, and Shiro made sure to lock it and draw the chain above the handle. Lance sulked back to the living room, hands over his cheeks as if to hold his head where it was and prevent it from tumbling straight off his shoulders. When Shiro came over to the couch again, Lance was laying against Cornelius, thinking about Keith and how he hadn’t seen Keith since the incident in the basement of Kuro’s cabin. Something about the way Keith stared at him just then reminded him of the way he looked at Kuro, backed up against the bars of the cage. 

He went to classes the next day still distressed by the confrontation. He found himself trembling—whether it was from anger or fear, he wasn’t sure. Either way, it made his head dizzy with thoughts of _Keith_ and what tempted that man to come to Shiro’s fucking apartment in the middle of the _goddamn day_ —

“Mr. McClain?” the professor called out. “Are you feeling all right? If you’re ill, the bathroom is just down the hall.”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, the words sharp on his tongue.

The professor bristled, and nearly all of the charmers in the class did as well—they could sense a spark when they heard one, Lance realized quick enough. “I expect you to follow class rules, Mr. McClain, and I don’t appreciate your tone of voice,” she remarked. It was her passive-aggressive way of telling students to cut the shit and tone down their charming.

He came back to himself then, guilty like all the times his mother scolded him for charming her. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” he promised, and it didn’t.

His classes let out at four in the afternoon, and while he could have hurried straight back to Shiro’s apartment, he didn’t feel welcome there. After Keith’s abrupt arrival, he dreaded to remember how quietly Shiro sat down and tried to resume their chess match, but the buzz from the alcohol was gone, along with motivation to do anything. 

He needed to bring up the matter of his charming with Shiro, but he felt like he wasn’t capable of discussing it verbally. He went to a coffee shop down the street from the university, and sat by one of the windows in an attempt to concentrate, and write out a letter to Shiro that wouldn’t be filled with charms and unrefined sarcasm. He went through several sheets of paper before he was completely satisfied, and by that point, it was nearly dinner time—Shiro was probably wondering where he was, considering he usually got back from the precinct around five.

Lance stuffed the notebook into his satchel and hurried out of the coffee shop. The evening rush was starting, and so he wove between people on the sidewalks to where the crowds broke up farther down the street from Pike’s Market. He ducked down a brick path to an alleyway between the buildings, discretely avoiding Keith’s bank on the corner. 

On the other end of the alley, he turned and approached Shiro’s apartment. He hesitated at the door, taking a deep breath before he even managed to climb the stairs and reach Shiro’s apartment number. He knocked twice before letting himself in, and smiled sheepishly at the sound of Shiro saying, “You’re back! I was wondering where you were.”

“I was at a coffee shop. Needed some caffeine after class,” he confessed, which was partially true. The door shut behind him on its own accord, and he jumped a little, and looked back to find Shiro watching him, if only partially amused by Lance’s ability to scare himself. “I… also wanted to talk to you about something. So I was working on that as well,” he confessed, which led Shiro’s hands to pause over the cutting board.

“Is it serious?” he asked.

“A little. Just something I’m worried about,” he admitted, and pulled a stool up to sit across the counter from him. He fished out his notebook and slid the open page across to where Shiro was now washing and drying off his hands. “I’d say it out loud, but you’ll see what I mean when you read it.”

He watched as Shiro’s tense brow relaxed the farther down the page he got. Lance started to wonder what Shiro was expecting of the note—a breakup letter? Even though they weren’t even dating?

At the end, he listed things he was worried Shiro was unwillingly going along with—Lance being there in the apartment, Lance decimating his sleeping schedule with his nightmares, Lance dictating how things were run in Shiro’s own apartment. Lance being too afraid to ask to move everything there, in fear that it’d just be another thing Shiro unwillingly went along with. 

“Lance, I…” he started, clearing his throat and looking up at Lance with such sorrow, that he ducked his head. “I hadn’t realized… I never even considered that you were making me do things without my consent.”

“But I _—_ ” Lance covered his mouth—he couldn’t even speak for himself in this situation.

“You aren’t! And even if you were, I trust you _immensely_ ,” Shiro insisted. “I know that you would never take me for granted. And honestly, this is how our friendship has always been. In case you haven’t noticed by now, I _like_ being told what to do sometimes, otherwise I wouldn’t have become friends with you. 

“And also—in case you forgot— _I_ wasn’t the one who suggested we have sex in the back of my squad car the first time we met,” he said, laughing as Lance covered up his smile, peering up at Shiro from where he sat on the stool. A warm, fuzzy feeling started to blossom in his chest all over again.

“The fact that you’re willing to _worry about it_ , and write me a _letter_ tells me that if I happened to be under the spell of any charmer… I’d want it to be you.”

“Really?” Lance squeaked. “You mean that?”

Shiro stepped around the counter and leant against it, bending forward to kiss Lance on the nose. “ _I do_ ,” he said, and Lance closed his eyes in relief, sighing against the proximity of Shiro’s lips pressing against his own. Shiro laughed into the kiss, pulling away to say, “Just don’t let your power over me go to your head.”

Lance shoved him, laughing before he lunged at Shiro again, arms around his neck and dragging him in for another delighted kiss.

  


  


That Friday, Shiro had off work and Lance’s classes finished early, so they spent the afternoon driving to Lance’s apartment to pick up the rest of his things. They planned to move the love seat, and clear out the rest of Lance’s furniture that he owned. Eventually, Hunk would arrange to sell the apartment, and as Lance talked on the phone with him that day, he blushed when Hunk said, “I’m so happy for you guys! Finally moving in together, making it official.”

“We aren’t… _official_ ,” Lance whined. “Stop fussing about it.”

“It’s like you two are practically _married!_ ” In the distance he heard Shay cry out, “They’re more married than us! Unbelievable. Hunk, we have to out-do them. I won’t be one-upped by Shiro.”

Lance giggled and insisted he had to get off the line because Shiro was complaining he was taking too long. Hunk hurriedly said his goodbyes and hung up so Lance could rush out of the apartment, and lock the door behind him to catch up with Shiro. Together, they drove to Lance’s apartment building where they parked the car out front where they could transport the furniture easier.

Lance couldn’t remember what they were talking about around the time they reached his door, because he broke off the instant he pushed the door open. His jaw dropped, and he heard Shiro blurt out, “Holy… _shit_. Those were _not_ there before.”

Amid all of his “welcome home” gifts—or rather, _hiding them_ —were vases upon vases of roses. They came in massive, overpowering bouquets shaped like domes of trimmed shrubbery, and blanketed the kitchen counter in reds and browns. The bouquets from his “welcome home” packages were dried out and fallen across the floor—which was to be expected—though several, if not most of the roses were dried out and weeping towards the ground. 

Lance’s jaw dropped as he stepped into the living room, and looked back at Shiro. “Who else has a key besides Hunk and the landlord?” he asked, and Shiro shrugged.

“No one, not that I know of. And I _definitely_ didn’t drop these off,” he said, setting his wallet on the countertop beside the fallen petals of a multicolored daisy. He lifted up one of the rose vases and squinted at the ribbon tied to it. Lance was already looking for tags, and found one tied to and older, dried out bunch of white roses. Their petals curled and rustled against one another as he lifted the vase and read:

_Pidge picked these—but she says not to get any bright ideas about it_.

Lance paled at the message, and looked up to find Shiro equally struck after reading his own tag. “What does that one say?” Lance asked him, having to clear his throat to get the words out.

“It just says ‘ _We’re still acquaintances, dumbass_.’”

Lance couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of him. He slapped his hand over his mouth, feeling guilty for it before he explained, “Th-That was just Pidge. It seems like Pidge picked all the flowers then.”

“And who do you suppose delivered them?” Shiro said, though they both knew the answer to that. “Lance, I seriously wish you’d consider getting a restraining order—”

“I don’t need one.”

“Yes, well… I still don’t think your words alone will be enough to prevent Keith from ‘staying away’. _Clearly_ he has no regard for that, considering he’s been coming into your apartment at what appears to be a _daily_ rate. There has to be two dozen vases in here, Lance!” 

“Well… that explains how he knows I haven’t been around my apartment,” he muttered, and earned a glare for it. “And I didn’t come here to fuss over a bunch of roses! Just… just throw them off the fire escape or something! I don’t care—let’s just get my shit out of here.”

But that of course didn’t stop them from seeing the roses during every passing through the living room, carrying down armfuls of clothes to the car. And after they strapped the pieces of Lance’s bed to the top of the car—the last of the furniture pieces—Shiro pointedly started plucking bouquets out of vases and stuffing them into the garbage can. Lance was discrete as he snagged the tags on them all and selfishly read them when Shiro wasn’t looking. 

_You left your book half-finished. You better fucking pick it up—this isn’t a LIBRARY._ (Which was promptly followed by Keith’s neat handwriting, _She’s kidding._ )

_YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR THAT BOOK YOU RUINED. It was a FIRST EDITION._ (Followed by Keith saying, _It wasn’t. She’s exaggerating_.)

_I HOPE YOUR ASSHOLE IS OKAY_.

_I made avocado omelettes today and I hated them. I hope you die._

_You could at least write back, dick_.

_I THOUGHT WE HAD SOMETHING SPECIAL._

_I fucking hate you and your perfect blue eyes. And your bloody asshole._

_I hope your broken fingers fell off._

_Keith says you’re still alive but I seriously think you’re DEAD because you’re DEAD TO ME._

  


  


Shiro’s apartment had a spare room that was intended for a flatmate if they happened to put two names on the lease, so they spent far more time than they should have moving Lance’s bed frame into the room, followed by the mattress. “You— _know_ it’d be— _easier_ if you just—slept in _my_ room—” Shiro huffed in between lugging the mattress from one step to the next.

“I— _know that_ —but sometimes I like to have—my own room,” he admitted, panting as they stopped on the second floor landing where Shiro’s room number was. “The room’s completely empty anyways—you weren’t _using it_ for anything.”

“I had my weights in there!”

“Yeah, all _two of them_ —EEK! Shiro—” Lance shrieked, bubbling into laughter as Shiro tickled him, and captured him in a sweaty embrace. “ _Ewww_ —get off me!”

When they finished moving the bed and the couch up into the room, Lance pushed in his rack of clothes from Shiro’s room—they took up so much space as it was—and wedged it between his bed and the wall farthest from his window. “We still have your entire closet down in the car,” Shiro warned him.

“I know—I’ll just… fold them all up nicely underneath my bed,” he suggested, but even that seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. “It’ll have to do for now. Right?”

Shiro shrugged, looking stunned by the sheer amount of clothes Lance owned. “There’s also a party tonight. Do you even think we’re going to make it? Hunk’s been trying to get you to go out for the past _month_ and you haven’t given him a straight answer.”

“I just… I’m not in the partying mood anymore,” he confessed with a shrug.

“You _love_ dancing though. Maybe getting back into it will make you feel better.”

“I _am_ better,” Lance snapped, and knew instantly that he was lying while Shiro was forced to take him for his word and agree with the false fact that he _was_ better.

That night they didn’t go out, but Lance grudgingly agreed to have a small get-together because he realized that he couldn’t keep saying _No_ to Shiro. Suddenly he couldn’t seem to stop saying it now that he was aware that the word worked its magic as it should. So Hunk and Shay came over, and together the four of them delved back into old habits of sharing stories and drinking cocktails over a bored game Shiro dug out of his closet.

Hunk sat beside Lance with his hand over the couch cushion behind him, and tipped his glass over to _tink_ against the edge of Lance’s. “So how’s life, huh? Classes going well?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. I’m almost done with the program—top of the class as well,” he confessed. “Probably because I don’t have anything _better_ to do aside from study.”

“Quick program,” Shay commented.

“Yeah. They want us to start working as soon as possible, so they condense two years of classes into two months or something like that,” he explained. “I think some of my professors hate me, though. In the classes that we actually _use_ charming, all the other students have to work _hard_ to even scratch the surface of what I do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Say something with a spark and the person I’m charming snaps without a second thought,” he explained, snapping his fingers for emphasis. “I mean. It’d be hilarious if I was able to turn it off.”

“Can’t you though? I don’t feel like I’m being charmed,” Shay confessed.

Hunk laughed a little, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe you never _told me_ you were a charmer. I never would have guessed,” he said. 

“I’d give you a show, but I don’t like to use it purposefully unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Lance confessed, glancing at Shiro as he did so. Shiro smiled softly before staring down at his glass and taking a sip from it. The distinct sound of Shiro’s brother hitting the ground startled Lance with its clarity. He set his glass down.

“Oh come on. I’ve never seen a charmer work before! There’s so few of them!” Shay whined, tipping her head to the side as she pouted at Lance. 

“Don’t pressure him into anything,” Shiro told her. “Charming is actually pretty dangerous. I’m glad Lance knows how to use it properly.”

“Thanks Shiro,” he murmured.

“So do you think it’s genetic?” Hunk changed the subject swiftly, the topic change a breath of fresh air. Now that the attention wasn’t specifically addressed to Lance, he felt as though he could use his lungs again. “Charming, I mean. Because magic itself isn’t.”

“I think it is,” Lance said. “We learned a bit about the history of charming at the beginning of the program. It skips generations, though—my grandma was a charmer, as was my great grandpa on the other side of my family.”

“I bet it’s like blue eyes,” Shay said. “You know, where you need two recessive alleles to generate a result. And even then the chances of that phenotype prevailing are rare.”

“But charming isn’t exactly a _phenotype_ ,” he said. “It’s like mental disorders, I think. And it isn't proven yet that metal disorders are strictly genetic. You either embrace it or you don’t—I know of some institutions that break the cycle of charming early on in life, and they’re coming up with medication to dilute it entirely.”

“Seriously?” Shiro said. “Where did you hear that? Why would they ever attempt to wipe out charming entirely?”

“I… heard about it in class,” he lied—lying came so easily in those days, “If they mass produce anti-charming drugs, a prescription would likely be necessary in occupations within the government.”

“Can you imagine how many charmers must be in politics?” Shay asked. “I imagine it becomes immensely useful in debates.”

“That’s what makes it an unfair playing field, though,” he argued. “It’s all these charmers muscling up against one another, and any _normal_ person who has _real_ , _genuine_ ideas gets completely swept under the rug.”

They went on arguing about politics until late into the evening, when all of their glasses had been emptied more than three times. Shay and Hunk left, and Lance’s shoulders slumped immediately after, collapsing into the couch as Shiro said his goodbyes at the door and shut and locked it behind their guests. 

That night, Lance slept in his own room because he couldn’t help but feel paranoid about socializing. He didn’t _expect_ Keith to come barging in, busting through his door with an axe, but he couldn’t bear to wake up next someone— _anyone_. It would only be reminiscent of the times Keith came back from work late because of such-and-such a meeting. And how he’d sometimes, after fucking away his frustrations, lie with his cheek against Lance’s naval, and blanket his arms over Lance’s bare chest.

Having Hunk and Shay over distracted Lance from the fact that Pidge was still thinking about him. With this now as a fact, he felt immensely miserable to have put her through this. If there was one thing he and Keith could agree on, it was the fact that Pidge was still a tolerable human being who needed protection. He hadn’t expected her to get so attached to him, considering how often she spent assuring him that she wasn’t. 

He thought about this so much that suddenly it was morning, and Shiro was knocking on his door. “Hey, are you up?” he asked.

“Hm… yeah,” Lance grumbled, turning onto his side and tucking the blankets up. “I mean, _no_ , I’m not. But you can come in.”

The door creaked open, and a sliver of light fell over the blankets. He moaned a little, peering over the sheets over to where Shiro, fully clothed in his uniform, was now tipping down to collapse next to him. Shiro laughed, turning onto his side to face Lance. Lance merely blinked at him. “What? What is it?” Shiro asked, brushing his fingers through Lance’s hair.

“Pidge misses me,” he whispered. “She always pretended to hate me, but I think she misses me.”

Shiro didn’t say anything, mainly because they both knew what he would say. He’d say something along the lines of, “You shouldn’t be thinking about her. You shouldn’t be thinking about the estate.” Lance was grateful that he said none of these things, so he leant forward and pressed his forehead to Shiro’s shoulder. 

“She once tricked me into thinking she’d help me escape,” he whispered. “It was all fake, but… I like to think that she really meant it. Saying that she’d come live with me and stuff, I guess? And, like… she could keep her stick and stuff. I’d cook her meals, ‘cause she spends so much time cooking at the estate… We’d go to the movies together and I’d take her to Pike’s and buy her piroshkis.” 

They were both quiet for a moment as Shiro combed his fingers through Lance’s hair, and calmed him down. They laid together throughout the morning until Shiro was forced to get up for work. He moaned, “I need to leave…” which lead Lance to hold him tightly around the torso and sing back, “Just five more minutes…” 

So Shiro stayed for five more minutes before kissing Lance on the head and rolling off the bed. “Ask Hunk about looking into getting the locks changed at your old apartment,” he said. “I put a note on the counter about it.”

Lance groaned, turning over.

“And… I really shouldn’t be encouraging this… however. Maybe you should try writing something back to Pidge. You don’t have to send it or anything. Just to clear your head,” Shiro recommended as he was at the door. Lance peered over his shoulder at where Shiro stood, studying him in the slits of morning light cutting between the curtains. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay. Have a good day,” Lance said. 

After Shiro left, Lance spent a little while longer in bed until he was able to summon enough motivation to do something. He went to his satchel and grabbed hold of his notebook, and did as Shiro suggested—he started to write to Pidge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/) :D


	14. lunch date

Lance’s letters to Pidge started out as excuses to write her, trying to reason with himself _why_ he was writing to her in the first place. Did he want her to feel like shit for condoning everything that happened to him? For tricking him into running away, when she had no intention of remaining true to him? What could have possibly wrapped its phantom hands around her neck, and throttled her into betraying him like that? Did she seriously think he could _ever_ forgive her for _everything_ that—

He crinkled up the paper and tossed it. 

She was just a child. She would be disappointed to receive a letter like that. She wasn’t looking for a reason to feel bad about herself—she was to confident, too sure of herself to feel guilt for anything she happened to do. He spent some time tracking what he knew about her and her mannerisms before he was even capable of writing a decent, nondestructive letter to her that was mostly meaningless to him, but might just mean everything to her.

He folded it up and was stuffing it in an envelope before he could stop himself. He pulled on a jacket and actual pants, along with boots and a scarf. He was out the door, locking it behind him, and heading off towards Pike’s. The entire way, he threatened himself that if he doubted this, he’d only regret it. The guilt of not having responded to Pidge was too much, even as he cornered himself into thinking that she was only doing this to get a word out of him. She was only doing this not because she _cared_ about him, but because she wanted to see what his reaction was.

He refused to look at the bank as he walked towards it. He kept his eyes on the ground, and on the street as he crossed it and hurried into the building. The chill from outdoors didn’t faze him until he was already in the warmth, suffering from his numb nose and fingers. His eyes blurred a little, so he rubbed them before approaching the desk where he asked to see Keith.

“Mister Kogane only accepts pre-made appointments.”

“Where’s his office then?”

“Sir, you can’t— _sir!_ The second floor is off limits to customers—” He was already halfway there when the secretary booked it out of her seat and up the stairs after him. He looked both ways down the hall, aware that the secretary was trying to keep her voice down to keep the other customers from worrying, but her voice called to attention the man in the office at the far end of the hall—door open and all. 

Lance gave a start at the sight of Keith sitting there, and the shock of finding himself in _Keith Kogane’s bank_ suddenly took hold of his heart and rattled it in his ribcage. He _knew_ Keith saw him, so he couldn’t stop himself from dodging the secretary and running straight back down the stairs as she cried out, “ _Sir!_ Excuse me, but _what_ do you think you’re—”

“Lance?” Keith called out from his door, running out into the hall to lean down over the railing and watch Lance escape out the door. Lance heard his name echo once more before ceasing all together, and as he panted out in the autumn mist, he could already hear his brain exploding in a flurry of panic.

_Oh shit, what have I done? Why did I do that? What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He heard the front door of the building ring open, and he flinched, hearing his name on Keith’s lips again—too close for comfort. “Lance—what are you doing here?” he asked.

Lance turned to him, and realized instantly that Keith wasn’t in a coat at all—he was hugging his arms over his chest, eyes wide. He seemed just as startled to see Lance as Lance was to _be_ there. His heart was on fire as he hugged the letter to his chest and looked elsewhere, suddenly thankful that they were in public. 

“I, um…” he started, voice so quiet that he couldn’t finish.

“Would you like to go up into my office? It’s… kind of cold out here,” Keith said, nodding towards the door. 

“No—No. I just—I just wanted to drop this off. For Pidge,” he said, holding the letter out then. Keith looked at it for a moment before plucking it out of Lance’s hands to survey the envelope. “And also to say that you need to stop breaking into my apartment to drop off those roses.”

“All the roses died not too long ago. Everything that’s in your apartment happens to be the last of the good ones,” Keith confessed, “So you won’t be seeing any more of them.”

Lance nodded mutely. He found it impossible to look Keith in the eye without wanting to bolt in the opposite direction. At the same time, it unnerved him—not being able to see Keith directly. His eyes were all over the place before Keith even said, “Are you sure you don’t want to go inside?”

“Yes, positive. I should—I need to get going,” he lied, gesturing away from this godawful conversation.

“Wait, Lance,” Keith said, stepping a fraction closer and causing Lance to take one large step back. The silence was so dense, it could have hit them both in the head with a brick and their reactions wouldn’t have been any different. Lance stole a second-long glance at where Keith was staring at him, eyes wide and grey. “I was wondering if—if you might like to grab something to eat? And we could… talk about a few things?”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

“I could just run up and grab my coat and wallet and cancel my afternoon appointments. We don’t have to go far. Just across the street or something,” he suggested, and Lance found himself twisting his hands together, scowling at the ground as he tucked his knuckles beneath his chin and nodded. “Great. I’ll be right back—why don’t you wait for me inside? So you don’t freeze to death.”

So Lance stepped into the warm interior of the bank, aware that the secretary was glaring at him the moment Keith left after speaking with her about his appointments that afternoon. He spent that entire time fretting, pacing, and trying to convince himself that he wasn’t going to go crazy. He was going to remain calm and composed and—

“Lance.” Keith was right beside him, and smiled a little when Lance came back to himself. “Ready to go? Where would you like to go?”

“No need to treat me like a _child_ ,” he remarked, pinching at his lips as they walked out the doors together. “The Quilted Lion? I haven’t been there yet today.”

Keith hesitated a moment before nodding and saying, “All right. Lead the way.”

They walked across the street together, staying on opposite sides of the crossing point. On the sidewalk, though, they were forced next to each other and kept pace with one another as strangers passed them by. Lance kept his gaze partially focused on Keith, and he wondered if Keith was aware of it, or if he was pointedly ignoring Lance’s habit of watching him. He always seemed to stare at Keith without processing him as a human—but as a threat that needed surveillance. 

At the café, Keith pushed open the door and held it for Lance. He lifted his head up, and smiled as he saw some of the waitresses where they gathered outside of the kitchen. “Lance! You made it!” Nyma called out, walking across the diner as he and Keith sat themselves at his usual booth.

“As if I’d miss a day here,” Lance snorted. “Sorry I missed the breakfast rush. I was _exhausted_ this morning.”

Nyma hummed as she took in the fact that Keith was there as well. “Now I don’t believe I’ve met you. Are you a friend of Lance’s?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“ _Acquaintance_. We’re barely acquaintances,” Lance corrected, and Keith laughed, remembering the card Pidge made for him. He couldn’t stop himself from snorting as Nyma asked them what they’d like to drink. They ordered coffee, and took two menus from her to scour. 

“I haven’t eaten yet today. I was just going to skip lunch,” Keith confessed, glancing up at Lance.

“Oh boohoo,” Lance muttered. “Skipping meals willingly versus by force are two entirely different matters.”

“That’s certainly _one_ way to make the conversation about you,” he said quietly, looking down at his menu with a scowl. His words were nearly silent. “And I know it was Pidge who convinced you to run away. I never wanted to put you back into the basement and I shouldn’t have.”

“Is this your version of remorse? Are you going to apologize now?”

Keith didn’t say anything. Nyma came up and sat two mugs of coffee on the tabletop for them. “Do you know what you’d like? Lance?” 

“You always know how to make me happy,” he beamed at her, and she giggled, taking his menu away. “Keith?”

“I don’t think I’m going to get anything. Thanks you, though,” he said, about to hand his menu off, but Lance was scowling at him. “What?”

“I am _not_ going to sit here just for you to watch me eat,” he argued. “Eat something.”

“Well—what would you recommend? And _no_ , I am _not_ eating those gross avocado omelettes you love so much,” Keith said.

“Just… get some pancakes! I love watching them make pancakes.”

“Fine—I’ll get the pancakes for your entertainment,” he said gruffly, handing over the menu. “With bacon. That’s all.”

“Okay. I’ll put that order in for you two,” Nyma said, and as she walked off, Lance caught sight of Allura glaring from over the windowsill of the kitchen. He shrugged at her, as if to say, “What’s the matter?” She never answered, only stalked away.

Lance turned back to the table where Keith sighed, as if Lance’s exhaustion was passed on to him, and he tried to drown it away in the coffee he held to his lips. “How have you been? Since… everything,” Keith asked.

“Fine. I moved in with Shiro. I think I’m going to sell my apartment,” Lance confessed, tucking his hands underneath his legs to keep them from jittering on his lap. 

“Shiro seems… nice.” It was hard not to notice his grimace.

Lance scoffed and said, “Yeah, to _other people_. Just not you.”

“That’s fair.”

“You make a very convincing normal person,” he said abruptly, which caused Keith to burst out laughing. “I’m serious! I never would have known!”

“Well, considering how you walked into this…” Keith said, still smiling as Lance rolled his eyes. “But I suppose I do make a very convincing normal person. Since meeting Kuro, I’ve been trying to find some normalcy, I suppose. Which would have been the ultimate outcome had you stayed with me.”

They both fell silent, mainly because of the name hovering between them. Lance was dragged back into the memory of watching Keith’s hands shake over the wrenches trying to free Shiro as Kuro advanced on them. 

“How did… you meet him? Were you two close?”

“Close!” Keith laughed bitterly, looking away and towards the kitchen where disks of pancakes were tossed through the air and a flurry of powdered sugar and flour. “I don’t think… well, at one point we must have been close. A lot of the girls I ended up picking up off the street actually _belonged_ to Kuro. They mostly agreed with my terms because it meant getting Kuro off the streets, but none of his girls had charming abilities beyond that of… sex and what-have-you.”

“So is that how you met him? Through his… prostitutes, I’m assuming?” Their conversation was held in tight quarters to prevent people from overhearing.

“Sort of. I was new in town and I needed a charmer. My mother was a charmer, and she was _really_ rather good at it. I’d say she was about at your level—she could make my father do anything just by telling him to do so,” he explained. “She used to keep me in line a lot back at home, and so I had mutual understandings with the first girl. I promised to get her out of her contract with Kuro if she stayed with me and prevented me from… essentially combusting, I suppose.

“And so… Kuro came after me,” he said, fingers tapping on his mug. “I hadn’t expected to get involved with psychopaths here, let alone _serial killers_. But Kuro took a liking to me, and we started ‘dating’, if you could even call it that. It went on for probably a year.”

“Well, was he _always_ that terrible?” Lance asked.

“Yes. Well— _no_ , I didn’t know about his magic for a while. And then he started using it _constantly_. I’m surprised I don’t have serious literal brain damage from it from how frequently he used it on me. It was _awful_ and I realized quickly that he used it on his girls in training and as punishment. I couldn’t _imagine_ working for him, and the girl I had at the time actually _ran away_ the moment I started dating Kuro. I don’t know what became of her, or if Kuro ever even found her. She wasn’t among the bodies in the cooler, from what I read.”

He fell quiet for a moment, and Lance took that opportunity to drink from his mug and ask, “So how’d you get out of it?”

“Pidge, actually,” he laughed. “She’s actually rather vicious. And one night she just… _lost control_. It was probably the first rage of her’s that I witnessed aside from the night she tried to kill me. Kuro was… doing what he _did_ to me—it was probably midnight—and all of a sudden I remember just… that brief sense of release after the fact because Pidge had torn Kuro off of me, whipping him with this bat she made and hammered several nails into. I didn’t really see what happened, but Kuro bashed her head into the side of the end table before I yelled at him to leave and—miraculously—he did.

“The last time he _seriously_ came over to the estate was… a day after that incident. Pidge saw him coming, and I was still delirious from everything. I had such terrible migraines those days that I could be completely indisposed for an entire week. So I watched from the balcony as Pidge _tackled_ Kuro nearly to the ground with a knife—she stabbed him through the arm and slashed him across the cheek and nose. Eventually Kuro threw her into the rose bushes before leaving. She still has a scar from the nightstand, and a few nicks from the thorns.”

Keith finished off by taking a sip from his coffee. Lance studied him, trying to picture Keith as he described himself implicitly. It didn’t take long for him to picture the Keith he saw cowering at the face of Kuro looming over him. Of Keith yelling for Kuro not to hurt Lance.

“You knew he’d electrocute me,” Lance said. “Why would you want to take my place.”

“I’ve done it before—he can’t scar me any more than he already has,” Keith said sharply. “Besides, wasn’t that the courteous thing to do? Take one for the team.”

“The team,” Lance snorted, but he still found himself thinking about how desperately Keith tried to get Kuro to hurt him instead.

Their food came, and Lance considered Pidge again. “Pidge really is incredible,” he said in between bites. “I mean—she’s took on a _serial killer_. She deserves a gold metal.”

“She really does. I really do appreciate the fact that you never involved us in the case,” Keith said. “I suppose a ‘thank you’ is in order.”

“Oh, yes, please do inflate my ego.”

Keith finished cutting up his pancakes and finally got around to touching a piece to his tongue, soaked in pure maple syrup and strawberry juice. Lance grinned as he heard Keith moan into it, shutting his eyes to it. “That’s good, huh?” Lance commented, holding back his laughter as Keith nodded and shoveled in another piece. 

“Here—try it,” he said, piercing a fluffy, syrup-soaked piece and passing it to Lance. He took the fork and tucked the pancake into his mouth.

Lance let out a low, orgasmic moan and sucked on the fork. Keith snorted and hissed, “ _Lance!_ Not in public—oh my _God_.” 

He handed the fork back with a giddy, boyish grin. Keith scowled at him, trying desperately to keep himself from laughing as he dove into his plate once more.

“I suppose now is an excellent time to mention that I hate sex,” Keith said.

Lance hesitated over his omelette, fork nearly slipping out of his grasp as he looked up at Keith. Keith kept his eyes on his plate, though. “My father didn’t just force women on me because he was homophobic—but because I just didn’t like sex in general. I guess my childish concept of ‘coodies’ never completely disappeared because of it.”

“But—Why would you…?”

“Would you have preferred constant, physical abuse as your training? Above the seemingly harmless act of sex once in a while?” Keith asked. “Charming is more prominent during sex than abuse. I’ve tried training charmers without it, and it was never successful. Also considering the profession of most of my charmers. Either way there as always been an emotional impact that elicits stronger charming, but sex seems the be the more pleasant route. And far less messy.”

Lance was silent, appetite momentarily lost until Keith passed him another bite of pancakes. 

“If it’s any consolation,” Keith said as Lance took the bait, “Pidge _hated_ when I used solely physical abuse. She was usually the one to repair them, and she would have hated having to patch you up constantly. There’s also the matter of suicide being more prominent.”

“Oh,” was all Lance could say.

“This is a dull topic,” Keith sighed. “I hadn’t meant to drag this in.”

Lance was quiet as Keith finished off his coffee. 

“Pidge really does miss you, though,” Keith finally said. “But I won’t pressure you to do anything regarding her. She’ll be happy just to have received a letter from you.”

“I can’t imagine why she misses me—she once beat me with a stick, and then tricked me into running away,” he said.

“She’s just a child, Lance.”

“But… I miss her too,” he relented. “She was really sweet most of the time.”

“Emphasis on _‘most of the time’_ ,” Keith laughed. “She’s been practicing her slingshot aim on the birds in the garden.”

Lance burst out laughing, which just encouraged Keith to share more stories about Pidge that he otherwise would have kept to himself. They were talking about Pidge when the café door opened, and Lance’s attention was brought to where Shiro caught his gaze. He looked _furious_.

“Shit,” he squeaked, startling Keith into turning around and meeting Shiro’s gaze as he stormed over to their table with Allura on his heels. “Shiro, I—”

“Keith, you need to leave,” Shiro hissed at him from where he stood on Lance’s side. “I won’t ask twice.”

“Lunch was _my_ idea—Lance only came to drop off a letter and I insisted. So allow me to pay for our meals first,” Keith said, voice stern as he glanced at Allura’s hateful glare. She relented, though, and waved Nyma over to get their receipt.

“Shiro, I’m sorry,” Lance whispered as he pushed himself out of the booth.

“It’s fine—let’s just get you home,” he said, brushing a hand over Lance’s hair on his way to wrapping an arm around Lance to guide him out.

They were at the door when Lance pulled away, insisting he had one more thing to say to Keith. He hurried back to the table where Keith was sorting through his wallet, and looked up in surprise when Lance tapped on the table next to him.

“I _would_ really like to see Pidge again,” he confessed.

“You can stop over anytime—”

“No, no. I’d rather not. But if she ever wants to go to Pike’s, I wouldn’t mind showing her around,” he said, biting into his lip as he thought again, stepping back from the table. “Well… That’s all I’ve got to say. Take care.”

“You too,” Keith said, eyes following him as he hurried back to where Shiro was waiting for him at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith really knows how to make conversation XD
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/)!


	15. piroshki piroshki

It wasn’t until Thanksgiving that Lance and Shiro received a rapid knock on their door. They weren’t expecting any guests that day, so Shiro gave Lance an odd look before heading off to open up the door. On the other end was Keith, only second to a very giddy Pidge. 

She grimaced in disgust at Shiro and didn’t even think twice to skirt around him and search for Lance in the living room. “Pidge?” he blurted out, unable to leap up because she was already flinging herself at him. It wasn’t as if she was a small child—she was sixteen and weighed a _lot_ more than she looked.

“I just came to drop off Pidge,” Keith said. “Sorry for… literally no warning. She insisted she wanted to surprise you.”

“I did no such thing,” she argued, planting herself on Lance’s lap. 

“You really can’t spring up around here uninvited,” Shiro told Keith.

“Which is why I’m not staying,” he said. “Again—just to drop Pidge off. I have work to do, and if you can’t stand her later on, just bring her by my office.”

“O-Okay,” Lance squeaked, still staring at Pidge, who was staring pointedly at him, as though waiting for him to do something.

Shiro shut the door, and Pidge crawled off Lance to sit facing him on the couch. He humored her and turned onto his side, staring back at her. They watched one another with such intensity that neither of them were aware that Shiro was sitting on the coffee table, watching them. Pidge was wearing long, colorful pants that hiked up to her naval, and a fur coat topped with a glittering necklace and earrings.

Eventually, she glanced dully at Shiro and said, “Can we go somewhere _he_ isn’t?”

Lance snorted and looked at Shiro, who frowned at him. “Well that isn’t hurtful at all,” he commented.

“How can you be dating Kuro’s brother?” she asked Lance. “Doesn’t that classify as betrayal?”

“ _No_. And also, Pidge, this is Shiro. Shiro, Pidge,” he said, gesturing to the two of them. Shiro held out his hand to Pidge, but she just looked at it, and then back at Lance.

“Can we go somewhere else?” she asked.

Lance rolled his eyes with a laugh. “Shiro’s _fine_. He’s really nice.”

Pidge wrestled her hands between her legs and scowled at Lance. He sighed and said, “ _Fine_. Okay. Let’s just… walk over to Pike’s Market! Get something to eat?”

“We were gonna make—” Shiro started, but stopped at Lance’s pointed look. “Right. Fine. You two go to Pike’s. All stay here.”

Pidge yelped with excitement, lunging off the couch and hurrying to the door. Lance laughed, staggering to his feet and insisting he still had to get _actual_ clothes on. He went to his room where all his clothes were kept, and pulled on a warm sweater and pants, topped with boots and his favorite jacket. He tugged his hat on, and went over to the kitchen where Shiro started putting away ingredients for lunch. 

“Sorry about the change of plans,” he apologized. 

“It’s fine. You’ve been wanting to see Pidge—I won’t spoil it,” he promised, and Lance murmured, “Promise you’re okay with it?” as he stepped up close. Shiro hummed, “Promise,” and kissed him over the hat and nudged him off towards the door.

Lance trotted down the stairs after Pidge and her fur coat. She held open the door for him, and stood there on the sidewalk expectantly. “What is it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her giddy, suggestive smile. “You never smile. What are you doing?” he demanded, looking around.

Right there, on the curb of the street, was… _his baby_.

“You got my car!” he cried out, throwing his arms out towards it. He ran forward, hugging onto one of the extravagantly large circle side mirrors. “My _baby—!_ ”

The keys jingled from behind him, and he turned just as Pidge tossed them at him. “I convinced Keith to bring it. I figured it’d make you happy,” she said, and shrieked as he ran towards her for a hug. “No hugging! No hugging, please! I surrender!” she cried out, laughing as he peppered her hair with kisses.

They walked to Pike’s together and spent upwards of three entire hours there, when really, the market itself only warranted about forty-five minutes. She had a list of things she wanted to get herself—though Keith always arranged for fresh produce to be delivered to their house—and on top of that, Keith happened to give her a large wad of money to spend on whatever she liked. Her indecision led to upwards of three walks up and down the marketplace before she was able to actually buy anything she was interested in. 

Pidge took to walking several paces in front of Lance, as if pretending he wasn’t there. He smiled at the vendors as Pidge went on their third walk past them, studying their produce and trinkets. “We can’t buy anything yet because we still have to eat, and I don’t want to lug around things while we’re eating,” she told Lance as they paused to watch a musical show at the front. 

“Agreed. Good decision. Where do you want to eat?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t been here in eight years,” she said. He sighed and looked up and down the street for a moment before deciding on a place.

“Have you ever had a piroshki?” he asked, and she shook her head. 

“My parents never let me have them. They said they were fattening.”

“Well… it is basically straight carbs… but that’s okay! We can indulge them once in a while,” he insisted, grabbing her by the hand and leading the way across the street. She got a fidgety and yanked her hand out of his by the time they crossed.

“I’m not a child! You don’t need to hold my hand,” she whined, and Lance burst into laughter that earned him a slap in the arm.

They stood in line underneath the awnings just as it started to drizzle again for the third time that morning. They were fat, freezing droplets that created a mist over the people waiting in line. Pidge scowled at it, and nudged closer to Lance, as if his height provided some sort of barrier from the rain. 

They reached the rows of pastries in that small cubby within the marketplace. The light created an orange glow throughout the cramped room where Lance ordered a cheese piroshki for himself, and a rhubarb one for Pidge. She turned her nose up at him and said, “I hate rhubarb.” 

He nudged her in the arm and said, “Well, you’re gonna love this one. Now, pay up. Piroshki’s are on Keith today.”

They exited into an inlet out of the rain, where a sheltered channel of shops started. Lance unwrapped his treat and waited for Pidge to try it before he took a bite. She licked her lips and giggled a little. “S’good?” he said, and she nodded. “Now try your’s.”

“I don’t want to.”

“C’mon. Rhubarb’s great! Especially with ice cream— _ooh!_ Let’s get ice cream!” 

He was already hurrying out into the rain before she could stop him. She groaned, slapping her hands on her legs as she cried out, “You have the _weirdest_ taste in food!”

Lance wove between the people filing in during the lunch rush and beat Pidge to the ice cream counter surrounded by flower stands selling bouquets for a few cents each. He asked the woman behind the counter for a cup of vanilla ice cream, and before Pidge could protest, he was paying for it and holding out a scoop for her. 

“This is ridiculous,” she told him.

“I don’t care, and you’re gonna eat it, and you’re gonna like it,” he said.

She scowled at him and took the spoon. “You better charm me into this or it’s not happening.” He chuckled, hands on his hips as she took a bite of the ice cream, and followed it up with a mouthful of rhubarb piroshki. Her face lit up before she remembered to school her excitement, and swallowed it down with a frown. “That was the worst thing I ever tasted,” she said.

“Tell me how you really feel,” he jested.

She smiled up at him, round cheeks and all. They found a seat inside on a bench and sat there as they ate and shared treats with one another. As Lance licked the sugar off his fingers from the rhubarb piroshki, Pidge said, “I wish you’d come visit us.” 

He looked over at her and found her cheeks pink, lips pouting. “I think Keith misses you too,” she said at last. “And… you two would make really great friends once you get to know him.”

“Pidge—I can’t. I can’t do that, you know I can’t,” he sighed.

“He’s been melancholy ever since you left. I don’t think he has much motivation to do anything aside from work. Stopping Kuro was such a huge part of his motivation, you know? I think he’d really appreciate it if you made an effort to talk with him from time to time.”

“If he wanted to talk to me so terribly…” he started, and stopped when he realized that _duh_ , of course Keith couldn’t openly talk to him. The last time they did that, Allura called Shiro up and came to break the two of them up. Any time Keith so much as knocked on their door, Shiro made it absolutely clear that Keith wasn’t welcome around their apartment. 

“Never mind,” he murmured. “I’m still recovering, anyways. I don’t suppose you’d understand, though.”

“No, I don’t. Which is why I think you should talk to him. He’s not that bad of a guy. I don’t know how to describe it… but he really means well, I suppose,” she said, biting onto her lip. “But anyway. I should get going. I don’t think he expected me to be out this late anyways. It’s almost two in the afternoon.”

They got up together and started the trek to Keith’s bank, where the same secretary scowled at him and beamed at Pidge. “He’s right up in his office, dear,” she told her. Pidge nodded and was about to bound up the steps when she stopped to grab Lance away from the door. 

“Come on—just say hi,” she pleaded. He winced a little, but followed her anyways. He could have talked himself out of it, but he didn’t, and so he found himself following her as she waltzed through Keith’s closed office door without knocking.

Keith was on the phone, the chord of it twisted around his hand as he stood facing a wall all photographs adjacent to the windows. He glanced at Pidge sparingly, and noted Lance’s presence in the room before he wrapped up his conversation on the phone. He cradled it on the holder and turned to face Pidge. 

“So how was it? I can’t imagine it was all that thrilling,” he said.

“Very crowded. But we got these really nice pastries and Lance bought me ice cream,” she said.

“What is she, five?” Keith laughed, and earned a slap for it that he tried to deflect and failed at. 

Lance smiled from the doorway and said, “Oh, I don’t know. I was actually wondering what she does for school and she just said you have… a tutor? stop by every day.”

“Yes. Something like a governess,” he said. “I can’t very well send Pidge to a private school considering she isn’t technically my own child, so we’re keeping everything under wraps.”

“Oh, right. I keep forgetting about that,” Lance said, meekly as he tucked his hands into his pockets and looked at the floor. “I suppose I should thank you for bringing my car back,” he said. He watched Keith’s feet debate coming closer, but ultimately stuck to where they were. “I’ll just… be going now.”

“Well—” Keith started, the inclination in his voice suggesting they do otherwise. Lance looked up at him, and over to where Pidge was watching them both with blatant curiosity.

“Well…” she started. “We should do something all together! Yeah—do you think there’s music playing in one of the parks?” 

“Oh, no, I shouldn’t,” Lance insisted.

“Yeah—Lance probably has better things to do anyways. And I have a four o’ clock meeting that I can’t miss,” Keith said, checking the time on his watch as Pidge continued to pout at Lance.

Lance rose his eyebrows at her, and she mimicked him, hands going on her hips as Keith turned away and back towards his desk. Lance jabbed a finger in her direction, feigning an angry tone as she gestured wildly at Keith before turning to him and clasping her hands behind her back—the perfect image of completely false innocence. 

Lance wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, but instead of doing that, he said, “I… wouldn’t mind spending another hour and a half? And the park’s not too far, so…”

Keith stared at Lance for a moment, his eyes unblinking and highlighting their tiredness all the same. _Insomnia_ , Lance reminded himself, _Workaholic_. 

“Just an hour and a half,” Keith sighed, grabbing a set of keys from his desk and picking up his jacket from the coat hanger near the door. Pidge leapt up and skipped out the door ahead of them, and had Lance been less inclined to watch over Keith, he would have been out the door already. 

Keith folded his scarf in two and looped it around his neck, tucking one end through the other. “I apologize in advance for whatever it is Pidge makes us do,” he said.

“Whatever it is, I assume it’s a mutual understanding between the two of you,” Lance said sarcastically, and was surprised when Keith caught himself from arguing to roll his eyes. 

“You’re so full of it—Pidge and I do not _conspire_ , as you know. Our lack of communication is ridiculous, as if you haven’t experienced it first hand,” he said, and Lance laughed. “What?”

“It just—not many people pick up on my sarcasm these days. I sort of had a hunch that you and Pidge would be able to catch it and I was almost afraid you hadn’t,” he confessed as they walked down the hall after Pidge. “Shiro tries—he really does—but I think most of his ability to understand my sarcasm now is based on how I must have talked before… everything.”

They were quiet for a moment, and just before reaching the bottom of the stairs, Keith said, quietly, “I shouldn’t have agitated you and Shirogane that day I first stopped by his apartment. I feel as though I planted that idea in your head by insulting you.”

“It was already there,” Lance sighed. “I just didn’t want to hear it.”

“So then, tell me, how does it work with you and Shiro?”

“I actually wrote him a letter about it, since I can’t really talk without worrying I’m influencing him. But he seems perfectly okay with it. He’s the sort of person who likes being told what to do,” he confessed, watching Pidge as she spun out the door and down the street, away from the direction of his and Shiro’s apartment. “I’m sure sex would be fun these days—I’d get out the _handcuffs_ and—”

“Oh God, please don’t tell me about it,” Keith groaned, looking away and towards the storefronts as Lance laughed. “How can you talk about it so openly? You know, most people would consider you to be a repulsive person to talk to when you bring sex into it.”

“It’s called _charming_. Look it up,” Lance said with a skip in his step. “And besides—no thanks to _you_ —it’s easier to talk about it than to actually _do it_ these days. And making Shiro all flustered is what I do best, so… dirty talk it is.”

Lance held Pidge back from haphazardly crossing the street. She shook her arm out of his grasp and scowled up at him. He grinned back at her, and glanced over at where Keith was still focusing on anything other than Lance. His cheeks were pink—either from the cold, or the embarrassment of the subject; Lance didn’t know.

They heard the music before they saw it, and so Lance hurried to keep up with Pidge to where people were gathered out at the park. She ducked between the row of people watching and listening to the group of people making drums out of trash cans. Lance excused himself as he squeezed past people to catch up with her. 

She skipped her feet and flung her hands up, and out towards Lance. “Come on!” she said. “Dance!”

He blushed and abruptly felt as though dancing was no longer for him. He hadn’t even considered it lately, and thinking about it reminded him of how he used to shimmy and shake through the kitchen with Shiro. The two of them were always so instep, so harmonized that they could spiral and twirl and trust one another to never collide. And when they did collide, it was with purpose, and for the sake of spin around in a flurry of laughter that set Lance’s heart on fire.

Now, he would sit in the living room, or on a stool, and watch as Shiro let the music on their radio sway his hips. For someone who used to be so totally against dancing, the act of it seemed to come naturally now—adapted from years of Lance pulling on him and teasing him onto the dance floor.

Lance remembered the first party he accidentally bumped into Shiro after the incident in the back of his squad car. He thought about it so frequently back then, he was surprised that people didn’t accuse him of being a lovestruck idiot. The thrill of fucking a policeman was all-consuming at the time, and running into Shiro again turned him into a flustered, school-girl mess.

He managed to sneak his way into the party—that was how he got into higher-class parties those days—and so he wasn’t even meant to be there, and yet he was already in the center of every conversation, and every gathering out on the floor. The live band released a roar of jazz and the jump of the drum that leapt them all into the air, their heels kicking on the ground in a synchronous clap. 

Lance was still hot and sweating lightly from challenging a woman to a dance-off where they mimicked each others styles, shoulders bouncing and hands waving. Her skirt was frilly and swished with every bounce forward, and bounce back. Her jewelry clicked to the beat as his shoes tapped swiftly, and clapped to the finish, arms extending to her, and recognizing instantly the man standing on the edge of the fray—that cute police officer who gave him the _night of his life_.

His face went pink in a matter of seconds. The crowd was clapping as the dancer started chatting with him about this-or-that—he couldn’t really remember, because the officer was walking his way. 

He dismissed himself from the conversation to face that black-haired, Asian officer who looked just as thrilled to find Lance as Lance was to see him. “Hello again. Officer,” Lance said, and mockingly saluted him.

“Shiro—you can just call me Shiro,” he laughed. “I could have sworn I told you my name—you must have been too smashed to remember it.”

Lance blushed, about to stammer out his apologies, but Shiro just waved his hand. “Oh—sorry, that was. That was rude of me.”

“No, it’s fine. I was out of line that night. It’s no wonder the bartender called the police on me,” Lance laughed, biting his lip at the wondrous way Shiro smiled at him. “So—um, what are you doing here?”

“A coworker of mine knows the host,” Shiro explained. “And I had nothing to do tonight, so… here I am.”

“Are you sure you’re not on duty? Here to arrest me for my _excellent_ dance skills?” Lance asked, holding up his wrists. 

Shiro looked at them, ears going red as he chuckled. “Ah, no. Actually, I’m not working tonight. I’m just here to watch you dance, I suppose. You’re excellent at it.”

“What? Tonight or that night at the bar? In your _squad car_ ,” Lance taunted, reaching out with his raised hands to tug at Shiro’s suspenders. He had the officer flattered and pliable under his fingertips. “I’m disappointed. I was hoping you’d have your handcuffs this time around.”

He said the words low and quietly, leaning in to see the excitement on Shiro’s face. “Turns out you’re in luck,” he said, “I’ve got a spare pair in my car.”

They could still hear the music from where they ran off together around the side of the house, and out to where all the cars were parked on the blank and dark street. The trumpets thrumming in their chests, the cello vibrating in their stomachs where the butterflies fluttered and blossomed like flowers in the colors of sensual, beautiful moans of delight. The flutes whistling like their baited breaths in the back of Lance’s car on the leather seats covered in a quilt his grandma made a decade ago. 

Lance draped himself lazily over Shiro after all was said and done. He had his feet kicked up against the window behind him, and the quilt wrapped over them from where it fell off the back of the seat. Shiro was still out of breath, his fingers curling lazily through Lance’s hair.

“I kept… thinking about you. After the bar,” Shiro said quietly, as if afraid of bursting the private bubble they remained in. Lance nudged his chin up on Shiro’s chest, where faint, thin strands of chest hair grew and tickled his cheek. He watched as Shiro’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, staring up at the roof of his car. “And how you said you were a charmer.”

“I did?” he was surprised to hear this—he hadn’t recalled. “Oh, _gosh_ , I hadn’t meant to. I’m sorry—I _swear_ I never—I never use it purposefully, so I’m sorry if I accidentally pressured you into anything that night—” 

“No, no—you didn’t. At least, I don’t think you did,” he said. “Anything I did that night with you was because I was capriciously smitten with you.”

“Capriciously smitten!” Lance erupted, and Shiro laughed, folding an arm over his eyes. “Capriciously smitten! I love it! I wish more people could be capriciously smitten with me. I love the ring it has.”

“Yes, well, I think you’d be surprised by how many people feel the same way,” Shiro said, smiling as he peered down at Lance. “When you dance, _everyone’s_ eyes are on you. It’s incredible how many people look at you and suddenly develop this… existential crises where they have to debate: ‘Shit, am I gay for this man?’” 

Lance and Shiro snorted and laughed over it until Lance fell between the divot of Shiro’s body, and the back of the seat. Shiro twisted around to lean over Lance, pressing a kiss to his exposed neck, and down the plain of his smooth, hairless chest. Lance shifted himself up and leaned against the window as Shiro’s kisses left behind cool, wet marks down to his erection that swelled over the course of Shiro’s worshipful kisses…

  


  


Lance bit his lip at the thought of Shiro’s mouth around him, and how he wondered what provoked Shiro’s blatant openness with Lance that night at the party. Eventually they had gone back to dance some more, and to talk even after everyone left, and they were alone in the front seat of Lance’s car. They talked in the dark of the street until Shiro checked his watch and gasped at the time, and hurried out to his own car. They swapped numbers and addresses—however hurriedly which led to Lance mistakenly losing Shiro’s information and waiting desperately in the days proceeding for Shiro to call when he could not.

And now, Lance was in a park with Pidge and Keith, without his dance partner, his partner-in-crime. Still, he found himself smiling when Pidge grabbed him by the hand and forced him to twist her around. 

The beat picked up suddenly, and Lance was moving before he could stop himself. He grabbed her by the hands and lifted her up and onto the ground, saying, “Do you know how to swing dance?” he asked.

“Not very well—”

“That’s okay. I’ll lead the way,” he promised, and suddenly she was spiraling out and in, and around in circles with him across the brick pavement. Once the pace was set, other on-lookers followed suit. 

It felt as though they were in some musical number in a play or a silent film with the music playing in the back of the theatre. Lance’s laughter was contagious, and it bubbled up in Pidge like all those smiles she hid from him because she just _knew_ they were a result of his emotions rubbing off on her. They embraced it, and swung together with an off-beat harmony that would take a few dances to hone. By the time they were in sync, Pidge was exhausted and started dramatically falling against Lance so he had to hold her up for the last leg of the song.

As Lance half-dragged, half-carried Pidge over to the bench where Keith was saying, Keith said, “You have incredible stamina.”

“You’re just saying that to whip out a sex joke,” Lance pouted, and snorted when Keith burst out laughing. “Not. A _word_ ,” Lance bit out.

“I wasn’t _going_ to say anything,” Keith laughed. “Would you like to dance?”

Lance blinked at him, and stepped back when Keith rose from the bench where Pidge was now sitting, leaning her head against the back of the bench. Behind them, the band drew the previous song to a close, and there was the sound of coins clinking into their tip jar, and people clapping. Lance continued to stare at Keith, even when he held out a hand. “I actually make an _excellent_ swing dance partner,” Keith said.

Lance peered down at Keith’s outstretched fingers, encased in slim black gloves.

He twisted his hands in front of him before reaching one out to accept Keith’s offer. They walked hand-in-hand back to the crowd of people awaiting the next song to pick up, and nearly as soon as Lance and Keith joined them, the musicians began beating their hands on the makeshift drums again.

Lance fell into step with Keith, which ultimately pulled him along to twirl around at the whim of Keith drifting him here and there over the floor. As all the dancers swayed as one, Lance gave up the concern of bumping into people, and of being ultimately under the control of Keith’s calculated spins and turns. Lance let his hips sway as his feet parried against Keith’s, his attention held up to captivate the gaze of his partner. If he looked at his feet, he’d lose track of them in an instant.

Keith smiled encouragingly at him as the dance continued, and he twirled into Keith’s chest for a split second before Keith pushed off on his hips. “I forgot how excellent of a dancer you are,” Keith mused.

“You’re starting to sound like _me_ when _I_ flirt,” Lance huffed, pinching his lips together in mock-annoyance as Keith laughed.

“The consequences of spending too much time with you, I’m afraid,” he replied, their steps becoming uniform and mimicking those around them. Their feet parried together, they separated, Lance spun with the wind. As Lance was pulled in again, Keith said, “I _would_ like to spend more time with you. If you’ll let me.”

Lance’s brows pulled together in distress, the complications of everything drawing together in the wrinkle between his brows. “I don’t—” he started, drifting off again for a spin. “Keith, I _really_ don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Lance vividly recalled the way Keith shoved him into the dining table and shoved himself in dry and roughly, rutting into him as though attempting to drill the edge of the table through Lance’s abdomen. How afterwards, he couldn’t stand, and was dragged to the fireplace where he tore apart the fresh branding mark as he fought Keith off again—

His steps staggered to a halt, and it only took a second before they completely threw off the beat of the dancers near them. Someone bumped into him, jolting him against Keith’s chest. He stepped on Keith’s perfect black shoes, leapt away, and dodged a woman twirling with her arm out. Lance stood, chest heaving, heart beating, on the edge of the fray. It was the fact that his chest hurt so terribly that it reminded him that he was alive, and living in this moment as all the pain ruptured in his back again and again—shoved into the shower wall, rubbed against door hinges, beat at with a stick—

“Lance,” Keith started, now standing beside him.

He flinched a little, pulling his hands up to his face as he stared at Keith’s feet. “E-Every time I think about forgiving you… I just remember _everything you did to me—_ ”

“Lance—I can’t _do anything_ to you now,” Keith insisted. “And I don’t want to! You’re the most powerful charmer I know, and you’re everything I could have hoped for—for Pidge and I both. We can work on this, I promise.”

Keith reached over to pull Lance’s hands from his face, but he roughly threw them away, and shoved Keith by the arm. “I am _not_ your’s to _work on_ ,” he seethed abruptly, pegging him with such hateful eyes, that Keith’s shock went completely unnoticed. He looked frantically over at where Pidge was now standing by the park bench, staring at him like the ghost who stood at the estate door, alerting Keith to his escape. 

“I am not a _toy_ ,” Lance hissed at him then. “You cannot _break me_ and _put me back together again!_ That isn’t your _job_!”

By that point, some of the people closest to them were beginning to look awkward, glancing sparingly at them as if wondering _What the hell are they talking about?_ Thankfully the music blended most of his words into nonsense for them, so Keith could say, “Isn’t that what you want from me? Why else would you continue to speak with me?”

“We haven’t spoken in _weeks_. _You’re_ the one who brought Pidge to my apartment!” he snapped. 

“Because you said in your letter that you wanted to see me!” she argued, marching up. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if you _lied about it_ now.”

“Pidge—” Keith started, but she snapped at him to be quiet.

“And here I thought you couldn’t just cut people out of your lives, and that ‘Oh, Lance _has_ to come talk to me again! People don’t just _disappear_ like that!’” she snapped at Lance, who blinked, and felt cold tears collecting on his lashes, and saw them blurring the edges of his vision. “Seems like I was wrong, though. I bet you never wanted to see me again anyways. I bet you get a kick out of making people feel like shit.”

Lance bristled, fully aware that his tears were drenched with fury at being accused of such things. Before either of them could say anything, Lance hissed out, “I would _never_ intentionally hurt _anyone_ —unlike the two of you.”

He stalked off before they could butt in with ‘excuses’ and ‘disagreements’; both of their egos were too high to admit to such faults. The second Keith tried to catch up with him, he took off sprinting, and ran for as far as he could without bursting into sobs in the middle of downtown Seattle. He turned into Pike’s and ducked down the stairs to all the underground shops, and used those hidden channels to shake off anyone that might have followed him, until he was alone for the remainder of his walk back to his apartment. 

As he caught his breath, he didn’t have the energy to cry, so he cleared off his cheeks and slowed his breathing. By the time he started up the stairs to his apartment, he was normal again, and already forgetting about anything he, Pidge, and Keith might have done that afternoon.

Lance knocked twice, as he always did, and entered to where he could already smell something cooking on the stove that had his toes curling in delight. “ _Yum_ , smells delicious,” Lance hummed, nudging the door closed.

Shiro twisted around in the kitchen where he was wearing a collared plum shirt and his pinstriped kitchen apron. He looked surprised to see Lance walk in, and it showed in his raised eyebrows, and cute pout. “Shit—I’m not done preparing dinner yet—”

“That’s okay. It’s not even four yet,” Lance said, walking up and tipping his hip against the counter, hand on his hip. “What’s the occasion?”

Shiro blushed and held back his smile. “ _Well_ , I figured we haven’t had a _real_ dinner date in a while… so yesterday I bought some lobster from the market and planned on making it for dinner tonight.”

“So we’re going on a date?” Lance said, laughing a little as Shiro frowned at him, ears still pink. “Well. I better put on something nice and help you out.”

Lance went to his room, smiling giddily to himself as he sorted through his mess of clothes and pulled on nice slacks and a patterned shirt he _knew_ Shiro would get a kick out of. From his room, he could hear the music Shiro was playing on their record player, and so he shimmied to the beat of it. He sashayed out of his room and posed for Shiro, who laughed from the kitchen, “Okay—now I could _really_ use some help here.”

Lance hurried over and cleared off the counter so Shiro could set out a cutting board to place the steamed lobsters on. Shiro used a tong to pluck at the antennae on the lobster in the pot, and shook the detached antennae at Lance. He squeaked and waved it off as Shiro shut off the gas on the stove, laughing at Lance’s reaction. The lobster was plucked out of the pot and placed on the cutting board. The cherry red shells gleamed under the light, and Lance marveled at them as Shiro readied the plates and accented them with mint leaves from their herb collection on the kitchen windowsill. He passed a lemon to Lance, who split it with a knife, and severed through the bumpy yellow skin into lemon smiles that Shiro added to the dishes.

By that point, the lobsters were cooled off, and so Shiro twisted off the claws. “You want to put butter in these bowls?” he asked, nodding to two small dishes he set out on the counter. Lance hummed in agreement and divvied out slabs of butter to melt. 

“Could you split mine for me? It makes me nervous,” Lance asked after Shiro cracked open the shell of his lobster. Lance tipped his cheek against Shiro’s shoulder, pouting until Shiro relented and broke open the underside of Lance’s lobster shell. 

They sat together on the couch, listening to the record player and letting their legs share the space in the middle of the couch. Lance dipped lobster meat into the bowl of melted butter and savored it on his tongue, tasting the hint of magic from the marketplace that always seemed to seep its way into the food, and transform it into something incredible. 

He hummed in appreciation, toes curling. Shiro hummed back, and when Lance groaned, Shiro groaned, and they made gross, loud, humming noises to themselves after each bite until Lance dissolved into laughter against the back cushion of the couch.

“You’re so cute like this,” Shiro told him, and perhaps it was the wine Lance poured for them that made Lance’s cheeks go red at Shiro’s comment.

“ _Stop_ ,” he giggled, waving his hand at Shiro.

“I’m only telling the truth,” Shiro told him, locking his legs around Lance’s feet. “And I love that about you. Even with butter all over your chin, you still manage to look cute and I don’t know how.”

“Well— _I_ love the fact that you totally don’t think you’re sexy, even though you _are_ , and I’m sure every woman you pull over for a speeding ticket is just _thrilled_ to have you waltz up to their window and—I’m _serious!_ Stop shaking your head!”

“And I’m sure they’re all _thrilled_ to find out that I’m as straight as a circle,” Shiro hummed between bites, focusing on cutting up the last bits of meat he shimmied out of the shell. 

Lance giggled, realizing that his cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He hadn’t had _this_ great of a dinner since the last time Shiro let him buy twelve cans of whipped cream.

“But do I really have butter all over my chin?” Lance whined, though he could feel the oil sticking to his skin there. 

Shiro set his plate on the coffee table and leaned forward onto his knees around Lance’s legs. He placed his hand over Lance’s wrist, and under Lance’s chin as he timidly laid an open-mouthed kiss to Lance’s chin, his lips, and proceeded to lick away the oil and the butter and the taste of fish from his lips. Lance heard himself think about how grateful he was that he didn’t have food in his mouth like that time Keith devoured his mouth and lips, teeth and food on the porch—

Lance groaned a little, pulling his chin back from Shiro as he closed his eyes and shoved the memory out of his mind. 

“I’m sorry—that was a bit forward,” Shiro apologized as Lance leaned over and pushed his plate onto the coffee table beside Shiro’s.

“It’s fine. I’m over it—now kiss me,” Lance demanded, thrilled by the low growl in Shiro’s throat as he happily complied.

Lance licked at Shiro’s equally-oily chin, laughing as he did so, and pushed Shiro back onto the couch so they laid together, peppering kisses to one another’s faces. Their lazy, half-assed make-out session delved into long, slow curls of their tongues between their teeth, meeting in the middle where Lance tightened his legs around Shiro’s hips and groaned against the sloppiness of their kisses. Shiro laughed, combing his fingers through Lance’s hair as he said, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m _perfect_ ,” he sighed, tucking his head against Shiro’s neck before pushing his lips to the flesh of Shiro’s trapezius. “Your—mouth tastes like— _fish_. I love it.”

Shiro barked out a laugh, tipping his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, well, you’re no better. I—actually have something to show you.”

Lance hummed against Shiro’s throat, suckling on his skin and marking a reddened bruise where he nipped at the muscle connecting Shiro’s neck to his shoulder. Shiro sat up as Lance licked up to his ear, wrapping his arms around Shiro’s neck so he could lift the two of them up, and carry Lance across the room.

Shiro was always gentle with Lance, no matter the circumstances—the back of a car, sober, shit-faced, tipsy. He felt like he was being carried off to bed after having fallen asleep. His head was fuzzy from warmth and sheer happiness, that he felt drunkenly sleepy against Shiro’s shoulder. It was still light out when Shiro quietly insisted he stand on his own to see the mess he made of the bedroom.

Lance let his feet touch the floor, and he turned his face away from where he had it tucked against the bruises he made of Shiro’s neck. The light in the room was off, but he could see the orange glow before he saw it—cheesy candles were lit around the room, from the dresser to the nightstands. It was the most cliché thing he ever saw Shiro do, and perhaps that was the reason why Shiro was blushing so madly as he scratched at his hair and said, “We don’t… _have_ to do anything you don’t want to… I figured, just in case, you know.”

Lance hugged him around the torso and said, “I love it. And I want to try—otherwise what the hell am I going to do about this erection?” He was embarrassed to admit that the walk to the bedroom forced Shiro to feel every bit of his arousal against his naval. 

Shiro rolled his eyes and said, “Regardless, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Lance giggled and turned to hop onto the bed, and reach for the vases of flowers Shiro bought from the marketplace—he recognized them from when he and Pidge passed them all walking down Pike’s stretch of vendors. There was a bottle of lube beside it that he plucked up, and he sat down to stare at it as Shiro sat on the edge of the bed beside him. 

“I don’t know, Shiro,” he confessed, clenching his legs shut. “And it makes me nervous, after the fissure. I’m afraid to tear it again.”

Shiro twisted around and climbed onto the bed, and over Lance so he could settle over his hips, knees on either side of him. He plucked the bottle out of Lance’s hands and said, “Well… I was thinking about that, and… I’m usually on top, and I think I’d like a change of scenery.”

When Shiro looked up again, it was to face Lance’s dull expression. “What?” he said.

“Seriously?” Lance snorted, snatching the bottle back. “You’re the squirmiest bottom _ever_ , so I _know_ you don’t like it.”

“That was _one time_ —!”

“Bullshit! And I don’t think it’d help at all. The whole situation makes me nervous. It feels like my heart is about to rupture from the anxiety of it,” he confessed, setting the tube aside with a groan. “I’m sorry Shiro, I really am.”

“That’s fine— _really_ , I mean it. I’ve never depended on sex so I’m okay waiting,” he said, and the comfort of knowing this allowed Lance to relax as Shiro leant forward and kicked his legs out around Lance’s. He practically belly-flopped over Lance, kicking the air out of him with a grunt. “I’m more of a cuddle-bug anyways,” Shiro murmured against Lance’s chest.

“I’ve noticed,” Lance giggled, settling in and peering at all the candles, their melted wax gathering by the minute. He sighed, and it expelled everything within him so he could let the words echo hollowly in his chest: “I really want to. I just… I’m afraid. Of what it’ll do to me.”

“That’s okay. We’ll work on it gradually—there’s no rush,” Shiro told him.

Lance’s gratitude was so overpowering, that it seemed as though his tears from the run back to the apartment combusted, and tore away at everything that prevented him from crying more often. His sobs were so violent, it felt as though he couldn’t breath, like he was being suffocated by the spasms of Kuro’s electrocution. Shiro held onto him, shocked by the response, and cradled Lance until eventually, minutes later, the tears tapered out. He was too exhausted to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was in Seattle I went to the lil shop called Piroshky Piroshky aaaand the rhubarb one was REALLY good. I would HIGHLY recommend it to anyone going to Pike's. 
> 
> Also the next chapter is short. It's kinda like an epilogue :)
> 
> You can always find me on [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/)!


	16. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There... is... a plot hole that I'm just... gonna ignore. Essentially I DID figure this fic started in the late 20s, but not late enough for prohibition to end, and then I just completely let that sweep itself under the rug so ignore that fact. I JUST GOT TOO INTO THE WRITING ZONE AND FORGOT ABOUT IT GAH.
> 
> ALSO as I was trying to fill the plot hole, I found out that it wasn't ILLEGAL to DRINK alcohol, it was just illegal to sell it or produce it. So. The more you know.

Lance truly did appreciate Shiro’s sentiment, and what it meant in comparison to Keith’s. Shiro’s longstanding friendship to Lance meant the world to him, and such a sturdy, trusted edifice was something Lance needed to look up to, and aspire towards. After everything with Keith, and the final blow with Kuro, Lance’s own tower had crumbled. And while it was simple for him to convince himself that nothing had changed, there was still a wedge in his foundation that needed proper tending-to. 

Shiro’s own experience with Kuro clouded his attention once in a while, and haunted Lance as much as it concerned him. All it would take was a look in the newspaper where the number of bodies recovered from the cooler would be totaled up. The fraction of guilt Shiro once felt for letting his brother slip away from him turned into something all-consuming that Lance couldn’t totally understand. It was almost as if the women and men Kuro tormented were the product of Shiro’s own inadequacy in stopping Kuro from continuing on in his rampage. And therefore, he felt he had a hand in their demise.

There was more to it than Lance was able to comprehend, and he took to hiding information like Iverson did, to protect Shiro from beating himself up over people he couldn’t save anymore.

Lance started picking up regular hours at the precinct, and when he wasn’t busy with _real_ work, he was at an office desk again, tapping his pen against the desk and scowling across the room to where Shiro sometimes sat doing paperwork, and would smile apologetically at Lance. But, at least _that_ sort of work paid the bills, and allowed him to move in with Shiro permanently.

The _real_ work was the sort of thing he and Iverson had to keep to themselves in fear of it leaking and spreading across the city, and likewise, infecting Shiro. Since Kuro’s downfall, his entire empire was in shambles. It meant that the police were bringing in suspects involved with Kuro’s business, and one man after another was brought to the table across from Lance and he would ask, “Who do you know who was involved with Kuro?” and they would tell him—some with a fight, mostly the inconsiderate assholes. There were far more of those than there were the guilty.

About three days after Lance’s last meltdown, he came back from work and was startled to find a familiar black-haired man sat on the stoop of the apartment building. Lance stuttered to a stop several paces away, trying to convince himself that _No_ , that couldn’t be Keith—but it was. And Keith was standing and looking at him, waiting for him to walk into the trap at his front door. 

“I’d like to say beforehand,” Keith started as Lance continued to stare as though Keith just fell from the sky, “that this is out of my own free will. The only thing convincing me is the fraction of a conscience I own, and not your charms.” With that, he glared pointedly at Lance and turned away to say, “I’d like to _apologize_ for being so presumptuous the other day. It was rude of me to assume that you would want me in any part of your life. And I realize that it’s hard for you to believe me when I say I do not intend to physically hurt you again, but I don’t know what I can say about emotional pain because I’ve always been shit at controlling that much. But it seems like new things happen every day, so I’m hopeful that I can add that to the list of things I can prevent.”

Lance lowered his satchel to his side. It suddenly seemed to weigh as much as a full-grown dog. Keith refused to look at Lance until it became clear to him that Lance was incapable of even _talking_ , let alone _responding_. “What? You’re looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.”

“I just—did you just— _apologize?_ ” Lance blurted out. “And I didn’t have to force you to?”

Keith glared at him, and they were suddenly drawn to the sound of a window cracking open in the middle of a cold autumn day. Lance recognized the window instantly—it was in his and Shiro’s bedroom. A moment later, Shiro’s head popped out of it to glare at them. Lance squeaked a little, and proceeded to wince when Shiro slammed the window shut. 

“He’ll probably be down here in a minute,” Lance warned Keith.

“Are you two officially dating now?” Keith asked. “You always said it was an iffy situation.”

“Uh—yeah, we sort of are,” he confessed. 

They were both quiet for a moment as they anticipated Shiro to burst through the door and chase Keith away. In the pressure of the moment, they both blurted out at the same time, “So you should probably…” and “It’s just that—”

Keith stopped himself, scowling at the ground as he struggled to continue. “It’s just that… you were right. And I’m not here to _fix you_ or anything of the sort. And I’m not so _ignorant_ as to assume that you’ll ever consider me as anything more than… whatever level of friendship we’re capable of, if even that, but I wasn’t lying when I said that I would appreciate seeing you once in a while, and so would Pidge.”

“I can’t imagine Pidge likes me all that much after everything she said in the park,” Lance said, glancing at the door as Shiro walked through. “And she was right! Maybe I was just kidding myself into thinking I _actually_ wanted to see her. But I had a great time at Pike’s with her, and I don’t know what made her think that I didn’t.”

“She says things like that and doesn’t really mean it,” Keith insisted, “And she shouldn’t have accused you of purposefully making people feel like shit.”

“Seems like we’re all just _perfect_ at doing that, huh?” Lance said sarcastically as Shiro came to stand beside him, slowly, as if approaching a conversation from across a great expanse that he couldn’t fathom. 

Keith sighed, looking exhausted as he removed one of his gloves and rubbed at his eye. As he strapped the glove back on, he said, “Well. The offer still stands. And I figured I’d give you time to think about it. I was thinking I’d treat you and Pidge to dinner on Sundays. There’s a restaurant in the middle of the public market that Pidge said she was interested in, so we’ll be there at six. Feel free to come or not at all.”

Lance hesitantly nodded as Keith eyed Shiro before passing them to walk back up the street. Shiro watched after him before steering Lance inside and up the stairs.

  


  


Lance ground through the week day after day in the office, prepping statements, and following Iverson’s lead in the interrogation department. Everyone was so harsh with their words in that department, that every day Lance came home drained and seeking the warmth of Shiro coming home after him to curl up on the bed together. 

It was easier now to convince himself that Kuro looked nothing like Shiro. Lance’s memory of Kuro was worn now, and malleable, which meant he could shape it into what a brother to Shiro might look like if he wasn’t an identical twin. He often accentuated the shadow of Kuro’s stubble into a full-grown beard, which did wonders in masking his similarities to Shiro. His nightmares became less frequent, as time often made them, and he would sometimes startle awake to Shiro nudging him on the arm, saying, “You were mumbling in your sleep and kicking a lot. You okay?” and Lance would hug him, tucking his face against Shiro’s neck as he replied, “Yes, I’m fine now.”

When he found himself waking from a nightmare about Kuro, unimaginable guilt washed over him. How could he entitle himself to one fucking electrocution event when Keith experienced that for an entire _year_? He couldn’t possibly fathom treatment like that, whether it was an illusion or not. 

It was as if every time Kuro approached Keith for sex, it was yet another instant in Keith’s timeline when he came close to death.

Lance made his decision three days before he actually walked through the front door of the restaurant and asked the hostess if Keith was there. She walked him to the second floor where he found the two of them sitting at a booth overlooking Elliot Bay, and the boats anchored in the harbor. He saw Pidge first, and saw her shock of seeing him there. Her expression at that moment made coming so incredibly worth it.

He sat beside her and glanced sparingly at Keith as the waitress asked if he wanted a drink. “Oh—yes, I’ll have a brandy manhattan. Please.”

When she left, Pidge snorted, “He just came here to get wasted.”

“Did _not_!” he laughed. “I just need hard liquor to get through this. Nothing personal.”

“Sounds personal to me,” Keith said sarcastically as he stared out the window. “Besides—I’m paying so you might as well order as many drinks as you want.”

“Maybe I will—considering Shiro pestered me into letting him stick around. I left him at the bar downstairs,” Lance confessed.

“I seriously can’t fucking look at Shiro without thinking—”

“Language,” Keith warned. 

“ _Sorry_. I meant: I fucking can’t fucking look at Shiro without fucking thinking he’s Kuro. Okay? I said it,” she said, and Lance wasn’t sure why but he found her snark ridiculously funny. He snorted and covered his laugh behind his hand. “What? Are you _trying_ to make me piss my pants when I go downstairs and see him sitting there at the bar?” she argued.

“God yes. I’ll be there to watch it happen,” he said.

“I’d recommend you invite him up here, but I’m siding with Pidge here. And I fucking hate his twin,” Keith said, and raised his glass to Pidge. They cheered, “Here’s to that fucker being dead.” Pidge tipped her glass towards Lance, so he bumped his imaginary glass against hers with an audible, “Tink!”

“Five years of torture _done_. Hallelujah!” Pidge said.

“What do you suppose will become of his business?” Lance asked, curious to what they thought when he was on the frontline of tearing Kuro’s business apart. It didn’t stop him from worrying about the employees Keith used to associate with.

“All the girls will probably flee the state,” Keith said as he sipped on his glass. “Kuro’s ability to use magic like that was the main thing keeping other competitors from either killing them all, hiring them, or trafficking them. We’ve actually been confronted by several of his girls since the incident—seeking shelter and what-have-you.”

Lance’s eyes went wide, but then he was struck by the knowledge that Keith failed to mention this sooner. “And? What’d you do?”

“What would you have me do?” Keith asked. “What would you like me to say? That I gave them all fuzzy blankets and said, ‘Here, I’m your new sugar daddy.’” 

“I have no clue. But considering you said that sarcastically, I’m guessing that isn’t what you did,” Lance said, and fell silent as the waitress came back with his martini glass. He plucked the olives out and hollowed them before biting them into small pieces in his mouth. 

The waitress took their orders—which Lance had to think fast about since he hadn’t even looked at the menu once. He went with something simple—it might have been salmon, but he couldn’t really recall. He hurriedly drank from the glass and sighed at the burn setting in as Keith continued the conversation.

“I am giving them shelter,” Keith said. “The payment being their charming, I suppose. Since you aren’t there anymore, Pidge and I have been going through withdrawals.”

“Am not,” she muttered.

Keith gestured to her with a sigh. “See? Her snark is off the charts. She can’t be tamed.”

She glowered at him as Lance snorted and said, “So your payment’s charming now. How does that work?”

“Conversation. Proximity. Mostly sex, though, which I’m still iffy about—sex with me! Not Pidge—she’s not ready for that,” Keith blurted out, alarmed by the way Lance looked and pointed at her. “Emotional connection is the strongest form of charming. That’s often associated with sex, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, please talk about sex more in front of the children,” Lance said, gesturing to Pidge, who scowled at him and reached over to flick him on the head.

“In all honesty I’ve never been able to recreate the severity of your charming that first night at the party,” Keith confessed, and shook his head as he shrugged. “But I suppose that’s a matter of having completely _ruined_ your ability to use seductive charming on me anymore.”

“But you hate… you know,” Lance said.

“I know. But the charming aspect is addicting,” Keith confessed, propping his chin on his hand as he sighed, and glanced over at Pidge. “I can’t imagine you’ll ever be interested in sex.”

“Never. Seems convoluted and messy,” she said.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Lance insisted. “I’m serious. It is convoluted and messy.”

That delved them into a conversation about what sort of extravagant scenario Shiro concocted to win Lance over. Lance described the lobster dinner to them—and coincidentally failed to mention the _day_ it happened on—and how lovely of an evening it was overall. Lance sighed at the memory of it. He spun it into the story he told Shay, and was surprised by the result of it. Keith and Pidge suddenly began to don that mystical, spellbound expression his audiences sometimes got, and he imagined it had something to do with his excitement on the subject. Of his relationship with Shiro.

“I can’t believe it’s been ten _years_. Ten years! How is it possible to know someone for that long?” Lance demanded, breaking the spell so they could answer.

“I’ve known Keith for eight years,” Pidge said.

“That’s not the same, though,” he argued.

“It is _totally_ the same!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t kill my parents and then attempt to kill Shiro as well,” Lance insisted under his breath so their neighbors wouldn’t hear. Pidge shoved him playfully, laughing almost demonically at the mention of it.

“I’m still rather terrified that she’ll attempt to kill me again,” Keith confessed.

“I would never!” she gasped.

“I know a liar when I see one,” he retorted, scrunching his nose up at her. Lance laughed at the two of them, and broke up the fight so they could make room for the dinner plates coming their way.

Overall, the dinner was smooth sailing, even up until the end after Keith paid, and the three of them walked down to the bar where Shiro was. Pidge still wore that ill expression when she saw Shiro, and Lance was forever impressed by how composed Keith was when Shiro turned to them and stood up from the bar stool. He set down the book he was reading to glance at Lance, and station is eyes expectantly on Keith. 

Keith blinked at Shiro for a moment before saying, “I really should apologize for lying to you that time you came to my house.” Even Shiro looked surprised by the comment, but it didn’t last. “But I won’t. Also, thank you for lending your boyfriend for dinner. I think matters are no worse than they were coming in.”

“No, they aren’t,” Lance agreed. “If Pidge stops insisting I hate her, I could even call you acquaintances.”

“I will never. We’re acquaintances and that’s final,” she said, stomping her foot down. 

Shiro laughed, smiling as they all said their farewells before Keith and Pidge headed out. Lance snickered at Shiro as he paid the bill for the bar. He saw the amount and laughed even harder. “How much did it take for you to _not_ punch Keith?” Lance asked.

“A pretty penny,” Shiro replied, and he hadn’t talked until then so Lance hadn’t smelled the liquor on his breath. He pinched his nose and waved his hand, and earned a playful shove for it. “But I’m glad you’re happy,” he huffed, leaning over to hug Lance. They both giggled together in the bar as Shiro swayed him to whatever drunken beat was in his head. Lance pressed his cheek to feel the warmth of Shiro’s heart through the fabric of his collared shirt, and hugged him around the torso. Shiro hummed his melody against Lance’s hair until the music in him faded, and they took up Shiro’s book for the walk home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TADA! The end :)**
> 
> Thus concludes charming (for now). I don't think I'll work in The Quilted Lion era again unless I make a sequel to _that_ book (which I've considered. It'd take place in Denver, Colorado). But... I'm working on a superhero AU! And I haven't posted it yet, and I'm still working on it, but essentially it's a superhero rivalry between villain Keith and superhero Defender Lance—who works on a team with Allura and Pidge. Here's a nifty abridged summary EXCLUSIVE FOR YOU GUYS:
> 
>  
> 
> Lance basically killed Keith's father, and so Keith swoops in to reclaim his father's illegal industry and VOW THAT THE DEFENDERS WILL RUE THE DAY !!! And Keith's buddy Shiro is like "Dude chill" but Keith's like "NEVER! AND THERE'S THIS CUTE GUY AT THE COFFEE SHOP I WANT TO MARRY!" So every day Keith goes to the coffee shop across from the Public Market in Milwaukee and cries over the fact that his beloved broista, Lance, is hopelessly in love with this hot, majestic flower-shop-bodybuilder-tall-dark-and-handsome-guy-who-volunteers-at-nursing-homes AKA Hunk. And so Lance is totally head over heels for Hunk while at the same time, is being tormented by Keith's guys during his nighttime job as a vigilante. And Lance is like "CAN I NEVER CATCH A BREAK I JUST WANT TO LOVE AND BE LOVED BY HUNK!!" while in the meantime he has to save his sweet beloved Hunk from villain!Keith's attempts to KILL HIM because he wants broista!Lance for himself. Safe to assume Keith and Lance don't know each other in their nifty spandex costumes because they're both iDIOTS.
> 
>  
> 
> Honestly I might just use that as the actual summary. I wanna get back into writing action, and there will be A TON OF THAT in here, along with... like... misunderstandings BUT NOT THE ANNOYING KIND the kind that keeps you on the edge of your seat. I'll probably start posting next week (gotta get a few chapters ahead of you guys first).
> 
> You can find me! On social media!  
> [Tumblr](http://girlskylark.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/geewiIIikers)  
> [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/-SarahCorner-)


	17. Extra One Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance hears that Keith is throwing another party—his only explanation is that Keith is on the hunt again for another charmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who watched the entirity of _Mindhunters_ this past weekend. *caresses your cheek and whispers in your ear* That's right... I did...

Lance had been visiting the Garrett’s estate when he heard the news. “Did you hear Kogane’s throwing another party tonight?” Hunk had asked him, and Lance had been so startled that he dropped the mug of cocoa in his hand. The ceramic shattered on the tile, and Hunk shrieked at the sound, and the fact that Lance’s slacks were now stained with chocolate. “Oh! Gosh, Lance, are you all right?”

“What did you say?” Lance demanded.

He blinked fast, shaking his head as Hunk said, “I asked if you were all right—”

“No, before that,” he insisted. “About Kogane?”

Hunk barely finished repeating himself before Lance was off, staggering around the puddle of hot cocoa with Hunk shouting after him, “Hey! Where are you going?”

“Sorry! Sorry—I need to—I have to go!” he said frantically, and reassured Hunk that they’d plan for another day to get together.

Lance sprinted down the steps of the estate and bolted to his car. He dropped his keys along the way and had to backtrack, cursing under his breath as he picked them up and scrambled to start up the engine. He never sped so fast in his life, and hoped to God he wouldn’t run into any cops as he cruised around the corner of his street and bumped the wheels of his car against the curb. He internally apologized to his baby—the car—as he slammed the door shut and ran up the steps of his and Shiro’s apartment.

He bolted through the door shouting, “Shiro! Shiro, you home?!”

“ _God!_ Yes, yeah, I’m right here. What’re you yelling for?” Shiro called out from the bedroom as Lance hurried to the open doorway.

He stood panting for a moment, catching his breath with a hand over his heart as he tried not to let his adrenaline get the best of him. Shiro was lounging there in his boxers, a cigarette clouding the air near the newspaper he had resting in his lap. He tipped the cigarette off of his lips, eyes wide as he observed the state Lance was in. “What is it?” he asked. “Did something happen?”

“No—but… I think something might,” Lance said, leaning against the doorframe as he put a hand over his forehead and said, “Keith’s hosting another party.”

Shiro’s expression dropped, like it always seemed to do whenever Keith was mentioned. Even after all of their Sunday dinners, Shiro was convinced that nothing good could come of it. There was little Lance could do to convince Shiro that glaring at Pidge and Keith would help matters.

“Lance—” Shiro started, but Lance was already talking.

“We have to go,” he said, desperate. “I mean—I _seriously_ don’t think Keith’s well enough to cope with social situations, so this has to be another charm trap—”

“I- I know—Lance, c’mon, you can’t be serious. If it is, we don’t want to get involved with it. Leave it to the police—”

“But they aren’t _like us!_ ” Lance insisted. “Institutionalizing them isn’t going to _help_. If anything, it’ll just make the situation worse! And it’s not like… It’s not like imprisoning Keith is for the certainty that he’ll get the death sentence—he’ll just be suffering in there for who knows how long!”

“You can’t keep involving yourself with their bullshit though,” Shiro insisted, pushing himself to the edge of the bed. He stamped his cigarette into the ash tray on the end table, and said, “They aren’t your concern!”

“They are—!”

“No, Lance, they aren’t,” he hissed, and Lance snapped his mouth shut at the sour tone in Shiro’s voice. “And if you continue to convince yourself that they are… I don’t even want to _think_ about what could happen to you. They are _manipulative_ , and they’re just _using you_.”

“If using me is going to help them, then so be it. That’s why I agreed to meet with them anyways,” Lance insisted, sticking his nose in the air as Shiro stood up to face him. He may have been shorter than Shiro, but he wasn’t about to let their height difference be a determining factor in who intimidated who more.

Shiro had his newspaper rolled up, and he tapped it on Lance’s chest. “You shouldn’t let people use you.”

“Why not? I use people all the time,” Lance said, squinting his eyes up at Shiro. “Do you want me to demonstrate?”

Shiro gave him a dull look and turned away, shaking his head. He put his hand over his hair, dragging it back with a long, drawn out sigh. “Lance…” he said.

“I’m serious.”

“To be fair, though, you’ve gotten better,” he insisted, turning back to face Lance. “And just because you can’t completely control your powers anymore _doesn’t_ mean you should feel guilty about it and seek… your own form of ‘fairness.’”

“I’m _going_ to the party,” Lance hissed, the words sparking his tongue as he added, “and you’re _not_ going to stop me.” The strength of his charming hadn’t faded one bit since he killed Kuro with his words. When he truly pressed hard, though, he could see the fog of his charming cast over Shiro before his boyfriend was completely capable of forming a response.

Shiro blinked hard, and dropped the newspaper to run his hands over his face with a long, painful sigh. “ _Fine_. Fine, okay. I’m coming with you, though,” he said, though it seemed to hurt him to agree with Lance’s plan.

Lance mimicked Shiro’s frown before leaning in, hesitating an inch from Shiro’s lips to meet his eyes. He whispered, “Thank you,” against Shiro’s lips before sealing theirs together for an apologetic kiss.

The rest of the day was composed of staring off into the distance, trying to figure out an impossible puzzle when Lance had little to none of the pieces. Keith and Pidge were puzzles, sure, and Lance thought he’d be able to piece them together by now, after spending a year with them in the background of his mind. But… they kept throwing curve balls, and _did things_ that made Lance’s brain ache to think about. Pidge would be doing fine, and then the next week Keith would rat her out by complimenting the way she “perfectly shot five birds with a bow and arrow” and Lance would ask, “Why did you give her a bow and arrow?”

Keith would shrug and say, “Why not?”

 _Any normal person wouldn’t give a weapon to a known animal killer_ , Lance thought to himself as he sat leaning against the stuffed teddy bear in his living room. Shiro was sitting beside him, his legs up on the cushions. He had files strewn across the coffee table, and he was writing stuff down on a legal pad with a spare pen tucked on his lip. Lance knew all of this stressed Shiro out more than either of them could understand, and with Lance having a low tolerance for chain-smoking in the apartment, Shiro tended to replace cigarettes with pens and pencils.

“I can tell you’re thinking about him,” Shiro said.

“Specifically _them_ ,” he corrected. “I’m afraid that I missed something. I know Keith tends to tell me what I want to hear, but… I think he would have told me if something wasn’t going right. He would have asked for my help, right? Because he still thinks that I’m the only one who could possibly cure Pidge and him?”

Shiro sighed, plucking the pen from between his teeth to look at Lance and say, “He knows you don’t want to hear that.”

“It never stopped him from mentioning it _before_. But… he hasn’t mentioned it in months, so I’m just worried…”

“Worried about what? That he doesn’t _fawn over you anymore?_ ” Shiro said in voice that sounded a _whole_ lot like he was taunting Lance. Lance gave him a flat look and turned away, nestling further into the teddy bear. “Lance, c’mon…”

“No. I don’t want to talk to you anymore,” Lance muttered.

“ _Lance—_ ”

“Can you just—stop talking? Stop treating me like a spoilt child,” he said, and pressed his cheek to the bear’s fur. He closed his eyes, as if he could _nap_ with all of _this_ on his mind. It took a few minutes for him to realize that he could taste the aftereffects of his magic like ashes on his tongue.

He looked over at Shiro, who had his attention back on his work, his brows knit in concentration. He had replaced his pen with his thumbnail, and guilt wracked through Lance and made the tension in his chest rupture behind his eyes into tears. “Oh, Shiro, I’m sorry—I hadn’t—I didn’t mean to,” Lance said, his words garbling together at the end as he hurried over and tucked himself against Shiro’s chest, interrupting his reading. “You can talk. You can talk.”

“Hey, it’s okay—I was being ridiculous—” Shiro started, his arms falling over Lance’s shoulders to comfort him.

“No you weren’t…” Lance moaned, sniffling and trying to rub away his tears before they could touch Shiro. “I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Shiro combed his fingers through Lance’s hair, quietly as Lance lost control. Sometimes Lance couldn’t control himself, ever since getting back into the swing of things. It happened less frequently now, but before, he had embarrassed himself in the middle of criminal interviews, in the middle of diners with Shiro, and even at Hunk’s estate over a cup of tea. Little things used to set him off, but now it has everything to do with his charming, and how, sometimes, he wished he didn’t have magic at all.

Eventually, when he came back to himself, he fell asleep against Shiro. Shiro peered over Lance’s head at the files in his hand, and continued to work as he rubbed his fingers absently over the back of Lance’s neck.

  


  


“Are you sure you want to do this?” Shiro asked as he handed the keys to the valet at the marble stairs.

“Little too late to say ‘no,’” Lance said, considering they were now standing before the white pillars of the Kogane estate. He peered up at the pure white exterior of the building, and let out a shuddered breath. He hadn’t been here since… well, since everything ended with Kuro, he supposed. “I’ll be fine though,” he said.

“‘Fine’ is never the same as ‘good,’” Shiro said blandly, taking Lance’s arm as they walked up the steps to the front door. “I’ll be with you the whole…”

They both hesitated at the top of the steps, where one of the paid hostesses pushed open the doors for them. It was dark outside, and with the lights on the front porch… that seemed to be all the light that was permitted inside. They could see the faint outline of shadows—the guests—within the grand foyer, and the fact that there were only candles here and there to guide the way. The only thing convincing Lance that this was an actual party was the fact that there was music, and the chatter seemed upbeat rather than… well… what he would expect _now_ of people entering Keith’s house.

“What’s…?” he started, looking to one of the hostesses.

He realized then that there was something a bit _off_ about them. They were well-dressed and done up for the occasion, but at a second glance, Lance could see that it was attempt at covering up the obvious—the raw texture of their hair, the heavy-handed eyeshadow, and the violent stiletto heels that reminded him of who Keith took in after Kuro died.

“It’s a blackout party, sir—it was on the invitation,” the hostess said. “The first of its kind—the host came up with the idea. The objective is for everyone to meet new people without being influenced by appearances.”

“I knew this was a disaster…” Shiro muttered under his breath, looking back at the driveway as if that would stop the valet from parking their car far, _far_ away.

“You’re being overdramatic…” Lance sighed, and turned to thank the woman.

The hostess at the other side of the door stepped forward then, saying, “Wait—I recognize you.” She had a heavy accent, and Lance didn’t recognize her one bit. She shared a look with the other girl and said, “Lance? _Thee_ Lance?”

When she said it, the other hostess gasped a little, and Lance looked between both of them, perplexed and entirely caught off guard. He stepped back, bumping into Shiro in the process. Shiro put himself between the hostesses as the woman said, “We just—we heard so much about you. We are—”

“Charmers,” the other put in, smiling adoringly at Lance as he all but hid behind Shiro, his breath lost. “I was _so_ hoping you would come, so I could finally meet—”

“Yeah, that’s great. That’s fucking rich, isn’t it?” Shiro spat at them. “Glad to see you’re having the time of your lives here. Riddle me this—if he’s got charmers like _you_ here, why the fuck’s he hosting a party?”

The all stopped talking as a group of guests came up the steps from the driveway. The hostesses seemed alarmed by Shiro’s harshness, but one of the women got her bearings together and hurried off to welcome the guests. With her gone, the other hostess cleared her throat and said, “I don’t—I do not know. One day Mister Kogane woke up and said, ‘I’m going to have a party’ and now here we are.”

She clasped her hands together and shook her head, just as lost as they were for the logic behind all this. “But… Lance, you look… _so much_ like the portrait. The resemblance is uncanny.”

“The what?” he squeaked, peering out from behind Shiro to find the woman smiling eagerly at him.

She nodded quickly and held out an encouraging hand. “Would you let me show you it?” she asked. Lance looked at Shiro, who exhaled in annoyance and gave an offhanded shrug in response.

Lance took the woman’s hand, keeping Shiro closed to his side as she guided the way through the dark. Lance felt all of his anxiety return in the dark, and he hugged Shiro’s arm as tightly as he could to assure himself that he was safe. Shiro hugged an arm around Lance’s shoulders then, as they passed through a room lit by the fireplace Lance recalled Pidge standing by with the branding iron, all those months ago…

“It is just down the hall here,” the woman said, looking back at them in the flicker of orange light. Lance wondered if she could feel the sweat gathering on his palms.

She slowed at Keith’s study, and tapped quietly on the door before informing them that it was likely locked. “No worries—I’ve got a key,” she reassured, reaching behind her and releasing it from a fold in the fabric of her sash.

“He… gave you a key to his office?” Lance all but whispered. He didn’t trust his voice to reach above that volume.

“Oh—yes, no rooms are off limits,” she told him. “It is only locked for the party. All of our rooms are locked as well, so I have all the keys for them for tonight.”

“So… what? Is this, like, a dormitory now for deviant charmers?” Shiro asked with a scoff, and the woman laughed as she pushed open one of the study doors. She held it for them, and closed it lightly behind, blocking out the music, the chatter, and leaving only the warmth in Keith’s hollow study.

A shudder went down Lance’s spine as he stared ahead at the chair, backlit by the lights out in the garden. The room was cast in a purplish glow, and it took only a second for the memories to resurface. _You’re just here to stop him from abducting another charmer_ , Lance told himself, steeling his reservations, though he could feel them crawling up like the tears that crept down his cheeks early that same day.

The woman had walked off to one of the bookshelves, but stopped to turn to them and point to the wall behind them. “He keeps it there—so he can see you while he works. It is lovely.”

Lance let Shiro nudge him along, but he only turned when he heard Shiro breathe, “Jesus Christ…”

Lance looked up, and went cold at the sight the _massive_ oil painting mounted on the wall. It took up the space between the door and the bookshelves, and had to have been as tall as Lance himself. He never pegged Keith as anything other than a cold, straightforward bank owner, but there was something about the portrait that was _practiced_.

As if he had painted Lance’s face a dozen times before this one.

Lance was wrapped in red silk sheets, twisted in it like some… _Greek sculpture_ —only the colors were vividly bright, all warm tones, down to the redness of Lance’s skin on his brown knuckles and cheeks. His modesty was covered, but there was enough skin showing for all of them to extrapolate the rest of what the painting didn’t show. For something this magnificent, Lance was surprised Keith never _boasted about it_ over the dinner every Sunday.

“Oh my God,” he said, trying so hard to stop his hands from trembling.

“It took him over five months,” she said. “I was here for the whole of it. I had never been good with drawing, so it was fascinating to watch…”

“Great, yeah, so he’s another fucking Michelangelo. Whoop-di-doo.”

“Michelangelo was primarily a sculpture…” Lance whispered, still staring up at his face in the painting.

“But you get what I mean,” Shiro hissed. “Michelangelo fucked his models too—no offense.”

“His models often used him for money and fame,” he replied.

“Does this mean you’re using Keith for his fortune?” Shiro whispered, and Lance, to his own surprise, laughed. “Since when are you a fan of Michelangelo anyways?” Shiro asked, just to egg him on. Lance’s nerves vanished almost immediately, dissolving into a fit of giggles that had him snorting when Shiro didn’t let up.

The woman reminded them that she had work to do. “It was nice meet you—and please, do enjoy the party,” she said as she led the way out, and locked the door behind them. Lance watched her walk off, and as soon as she was out of earshot, Shiro dragged a hand down the side of his face, groaning miserably.

“That was…” he started.

“Worse than we thought? Uh, yeah, I’d say so,” Lance whispered. “No wonder those charmers think I’m the shit—I look like a Greek god up there.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Shiro huffed.

They drifted back to the main room, where they could hear everyone mingling. Lance found himself searching for something familiar—maybe Pidge, but mostly, he was looking involuntarily for Keith. It was impossible for Keith to leave his mind, not now that they were in Keith’s house. This was the place where Lance’s nightmares were born from. And he was standing right in the entrance of them, surrounded by candlelit displays of hospitality—of conversation. He looked up at the second story balcony, wondering if Keith was looking at him now, watching him fall apart.

 _Was this your plan? To make me feel like prey again?_ he asked his imaginary version of Keith, but it was always impossible to get a straight answer from Lance’s imagination. He gave up trying to rationalize it.

Slow jazz was playing where Lance could see the band split between the two stairs—blocking the guests from exploring _up_ , which Lance figured was for the better. He had no intentions of going up there, especially after spending several weeks up there before. Faint lights were set up near them, creating a glow to the remainder of the room. Despite this, Lance could really only see Shiro’s face scanning the crowd of people, looking for the exact same person Lance was.

“I don’t see him,” Lance whispered. “We should have asked the girl if she knew where he was.”

“Do you want me to go ask?” Shiro asked, but Lance was quick to shake his head.

“No—I just… want to stay by you,” he confessed quietly, pulling Shiro close so they could sway together to the music, and listen to the voices swelling in the foyer where the ceiling stretched high above them.

Lance couldn’t calm down, though. He wondered if Keith had already found his victim. His stomach churned at the thought, and he held onto Shiro harder, tighter, and tried to muffle his thoughts by listening to conversations nearby. In doing so, he recognized a voice, and was suddenly drawn to the fact that _Hunk_ was there.

He pulled Shiro with him, insisting they investigate. They maneuvered between people, and Lance reached gently for the shoulder of the man with Hunk’s voice. Hunk dismissed himself from the conversation he was in as Lance asked, “Hunk?”

“Yeah, man, I can’t believe you found me,” Hunk laughed, leaning in to give Lance a hug. “You left so soon! Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, um… everything should be fine,” Lance said, and sighed shakily as they parted. He wished their hugs could last longer than they always did—Hunk was always a marvelous hugger. “How long have you been here?”

“Just this past half hour,” he said reassuringly, linking arms with Lance to pull him along. Lance’s hand floundered for Shiro’s, and they caught hold before Hunk could separate them further. “Have you met anyone interesting yet? I was just having a conversation with someone over—”

“No, we just got here,” Lance interrupted. “I’m actually looking for the host. Have you seen him around?”

“Not especially,” Hunk laughed, and gestured with their hands to the darkness. The candlelight was like a halo around Hunk’s hair. “I’m sure if you asked around, though…”

The music abruptly shifted, startling Lance as he spoke with Hunk a bit longer before a stranger pulled Hunk away from him for a chat. After that, he thought of places he could find Keith if he wasn’t at the main event—the kitchen was off limits, as it was likely filled with a paid kitchen staff for the party. The sitting room… unlikely, and they had passed through it on the way to Keith’s study. Outside…? He recalled Keith’s favorite spot on the back porch, on the swinging bench where he would often accompany Lance in the afternoons. It was a place that wasn’t filled with terrible associations, so he figured it wouldn’t hurt to check.

He tugged Shiro along with him, around the dining table, and to the back exit where the brisk evening air caught on their shirts, and the clamminess of Lance’s hand clinging to Shiro’s arm. Shiro stuck close, giving him an encouraging squeeze on the hand.

Smoke curled around the lamps posted out back, and there was a bit of a fog rolling in that cast the garden over in a shroud of gloom. Lance looked both ways down the porch, and stopped at the sight of someone sitting on the bench—the one he used to share with Keith. He hesitated at the stairs, staring intently at that black-haired man as the guy plucked a cigarette from his teeth and let the smoke spill from his lips. Lance could hardly tell that there were other people out here, all smoking and chatting in the dim porch lights.

Lance was grateful that Shiro was there to keep Lance from fainting straight off the steps. Here, he had been expecting to find Keith mingling with the guests, hunting for prey. The relief of finding Keith secluded from the conversation was almost too much for Lance’s aching heart to comprehend.

“You go talk to him,” Shiro whispered. “I’ll stay over here.”

“You sure?” Lance said after a moment, turning to look Shiro in the eye. Shiro nodded, and Lance tried to find reservations in Shiro’s eyes, but there weren’t any.

Lance gently tipped his forehead against Shiro’s and sighed, closing his eyes. “Okay. Thank you, Shiro.”

When Lance turned back to Keith, he found that Keith had already noticed him, and was now standing to stamp his cigarette out on the ash tray beside the bench. Lance walked slowly, fully aware that the couple that was out there with them was starting to move back to the door. When they disappeared out of view, Lance noted that Keith straightened the front of his suit and released a shaky breath that shuddered in his chest.

“I… hear you already met the hostesses,” Keith commented, and Lance could tell that his voice was strained. _Not exactly the conversation either of us hoped for_ … Lance mused as he narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.

“What’s this about?” he asked, surprised that he sounded significantly more put together than Keith did at the moment.

Keith looked away, and Lance followed his gaze back to where Shiro was taking a seat on the porch steps. One of the columns partially obstructed their view of him, but he was there nonetheless. “She, um, she came to me after taking you to my—to my—”

“Keith,” Lance started, ducking his head before looking up at Keith through his lashes. Keith swallowed hard, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “What’s this about?”

“I couldn’t… think of any other way to get you to visit,” he confessed, and Lance raised an eyebrow at him as a blush filled Keith’s cheeks with a prominent pink. “I—I miss having you around all the time, Lance…”

“Why haven’t you mentioned that before?” he asked, voice softening, his charming fleeting now that he had Keith cracked.

Keith sighed, tipping his head back as he curved a hand up over his neck. He scratched at the baby hairs on the nape of his neck and admitted, “It doesn’t exactly seem appropriate to talk about it over dinner with Pidge around.”

“Okay, yeah, that’d be a bit weird,” Lance agreed with a laugh. “Can’t argue with you there.”

“I’ve _tried_ , Lance,” Keith said suddenly, the strain in his voice shaking. “I’ve tried so hard to stop myself from feeling this way. I haven’t felt the same since the day I met you and I just—being with you is so _incredible_ and I wish I could explore it with you. But I—I know your limits and I couldn’t—”

He broke off, hands over his face. Lance blinked hard, shaking his head slowly as Keith crumbled. He wanted so terribly to believe that this was just a facade, but Keith _crying?_ His pride would never allow it, and Lance knew that as a fact.

“Are these… _my_ emotions reflecting on you?” Lance asked, and Keith shook his head fast.

“No, no—I don’t think so,” he insisted. “Because I know you could never feel the same way about me, not after everything. It can’t be you anymore.”

Lance knew better than to follow his instincts then, but somehow, he fought over his rationality to rest his arms around Keith’s torso. After an awkward moment, he tightened his grip, shaking with the effort, and let himself relax when Keith pulled his arms up around Lance’s neck. He could smell the cologne on Keith’s collar, the shampoo in his freshly washed hair, and the soft, _soft_ texture of Keith’s skin against Lance’s cheek.

“I was… I was hoping you could tell me to stop feeling this way,” Keith whispered, voice hoarse. “I don’t want to do anything rash again…”

“I know,” Lance said.

Keith shivered against him, stepping closer so their hips touched, and their shoes bumped. Lance closed his eyes. “Tell me to _stop_ ,” Keith hissed. “Tell me not to.”

“I can’t—”

Keith’s grip on Lance’s shirt tightened. “ _Yes you can_. Do it!”

“I don’t want to,” Lance hissed. “I want you to get better, I do—”

“This isn’t _helping—_ ”

“It _is_ ,” he snapped, shoving Keith back by the shoulders. Keith’s hands remained fisted in Lance’s shirt, though, and he couldn’t pull his eyes up from that point. “You know my limits—respect them. Be a decent human being for God’s sake,” Lance said.

“I won’t be satisfied when you already have Shirogane,” Keith all but whispered, ashamed to admit it. “You can’t have both of us.”

“I don’t intend to choose,” Lance said, crossing his arms again. “I love Shiro and I trust him with my life.”

Saying it out loud seemed to dismantle something in Keith—his guilt came loose. The fact that it was there, and that Lance was seeing this all collide made Lance’s resolve even stronger. Frustrated tears dripped from Keith’s eyelashes. “You could never trust me with that anymore,” he said quietly.

“No, I couldn’t,” Lance agreed. “But I _do_ care about you—for whatever _fucked up reason_. I care about you so much that I came here tonight to make sure you wouldn’t make an _ass_ of yourself and land both you and Pidge in prison.”

“ _Stop_ …”

“I’m serious,” he said. “And despite everything, I find you incredibly attractive—it’s why I slept with you the first night. And when you aren’t being an ass… you’re fun to talk to. I… honestly look forward to dinner with you and Pidge.

“And I’m not trying to encourage you to do anything. And I would never intentionally try to… sabotage your progress. I feel like… telling you to _stop feeling_ would ruin you,” Lance confessed. “As someone who’s suffered heartbreak before… it _really_ sucks. And you’re probably sensitive to your emotions right now, so I wouldn’t want to put you through that.”

“I don’t need you to pity me,” Keith hissed.

“I’m not! Keith, I’m not, I promise,” Lance insisted, reaching for Keith’s arm before he could turn away. “I’m just—I’m trying to understand you. I can’t make any promises, but I would love to fall in love with the new you when he’s ready. But I don’t think either of us could be _entirely_ ready—I still have problems with, well, _everything_ that has to do with… you know. But I love romance and going to the movies and eating out and taking long walks by the water.”

Lance dropped his hand from Keith’s arm to his fingers. He linked their hands together and held it up, saying, “And holding hands is fun. You should try it some time.”

Keith stared at their joined hands and looked up at Lance, who felt like his heart was going to beat through his chest. “When I’m emotionally ready and mature,” Keith whispered.

“Yes,” Lance agreed, separating their hands to hold up his pinkie. Keith held onto it with his own pinkie, and brushed a hand over his cheeks to rid them of the tear tracks. “You’ll get there.”

“And what about… Shiro?” he asked, nodding over to where Shiro quickly turned away. They were in hearing distance from Lance’s boyfriend.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Lance whispered with a wink. Keith rolled his eyes, but laughed along with Lance.

They sat on the bench together and talked for a while longer. Lance wasn’t entirely sure that they were _avoiding the party_ at all—Keith didn’t seem bothered by the people who came out to smoke, and eventually Shiro joined them over on the swinging bench to share a cigarette with Lance. Shiro asked about the painting in the office, and Keith turned all shades of red that had Lance laughing and nudging him teasingly.

Keith cleared his throat, crossing his legs at the ankles as he said, “I know it’s ridiculous. I… had trouble coping with my new emotions at the start…”

“Aw, cute,” Lance cooed.

“Oh my God,” Shiro sighed, and laughed when Lance pinched his arm. “But you keep it up anyways?” he asked curiously, leaning over to see Keith.

They made eye contact as Keith narrowed his eyes at Shiro and said, “ _I’m_ not the one who gets to see Lance everyday. Spoilt brat.”

Lance laughed so loud he startled them all. He snorted into his hand, and giggled as Shiro crossed his arms, offended by Keith’s remark.

One of the girls came out then with drinks. Lance would have stayed out on the porch all night had Shiro not wrangled him in when partygoers started to come by and say their thanks to Keith for the night. “We should get going,” Shiro confessed. “I still have to drive us back.”

“You could stay the night in one of the spare rooms,” Keith suggested.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Lance said immediately, waving his hands in front of him. With that momentum and motivation, he stood from the bench and said, “But I _did_ have fun. I just wish I hadn’t come here in a tizzy worry about you guys.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Keith confessed with a wince. When he stood up, though, he didn’t seem to expect the fact that Lance reeled him in for another hug.

They stayed like that for another moment until the bench chains creaked to the sound of Shiro standing up. Lance pulled away, his hand drifting off of Keith’s hips a second after. “I’ll see you later, Keith. Thanks for _party_ ,” he teased, sticking his tongue out as he backed away and spun around. Shiro steadied him with a laugh as Keith dropped his head onto his hand to cover the blush on his face.

Still, Keith couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Lance— _especially_ after spending the entire night talking to him.


End file.
